The Diary of Mistress X

As I was going through my mental gymnastics, I was startled by a sharp rap on the passenger side window. I looked up for a moment in that direction and unknowingly eased the pressure on the brake. My car started rolling forward and the bumper cleared the low wall protecting the base of the call box, dislodging the call box from its base. Needless to say I was horrified. I slammed on the brakes and the car came to a sudden stop, jolting me forward. Apparently I hit the base of the call box under the speed that would have deployed the air bag. And being the doofus I was, I had unhitched my seatbelt in anticipation of reaching out my window when I approached the call box, and when the car hit the hard rock curbing, my forehead, turned slightly to the right, hit the edge of the steering wheel, which knocked me temporarily senseless. I felt a bare forearm push me back and then move towards the steering wheel, slamming the car into park.

My heretofore trusty car rocked back and then forward and the arm was pinned against the steering wheel by my breasts. I'm generously endowed in that department (I've been told soft, pillowy, rounded, heavy ... you get the idea). And as the forearm moved sideways against the bottom of my breasts, and as the car lurched forward the arm pressed my breasts upwards, almost touching my chin. I could swear that her hand, as it moved sideways, copped a major feel, squeezing the edge of my breast in a way that a bolt of pleasure penetrated the adrenaline rush of the moment. Strangely, I also remembering smelling fresh cut roses.

I looked to the front door, noticing that it had been opened, and that an impeccably dressed woman stood before me, resplendent in a pair of heels that must have cost at least a thousand dollars. Her hair was immaculately coiffed, and her skirt and blouse looked as if they would have cost me a month's rent. Her feet were spread slightly apart and she had a stern look on her face. Behind the make-up I discerned a woman in her 40's or 50's, but still with a beauty that radiated from her.

She lowered her large rounded sunglasses and looked down at me. Piercing. Emerald green. I felt them cut through me like a hot knife through butter. Probing. Penetrating. I knew I had a goofy expression on my face. I was still stunned by my head butt with the steering wheel. Is it possible to know someone in a moment?

"Hello," she said, drawing out the word. It was said with precise diction. I think I stuttered something.

"May I help you?" she said to my drooling face. I was still a bit woozy and trying to comprehend why this lady was talking to me. I'd never met anybody like her. So put together. Moving with measured purpose. Her voice had the inflection of authority.

I noticed a burly, heavily tattooed woman, standing next to my savior. She was wearing jeans, cuffed at the bottom, and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show off her artwork. She was outright glaring at me. I looked beyond them and saw a gleaming black Bentley, the car idling, or purring if you like, with both the driver's and passenger side doors opened. I thought I'd seen this type of car in spy movies, but never in real life. The magnificent gate was wide open.

I then saw a patrol car roll up to the edge of the driveway. It flashed its overhead lights for a moment to get everyone's attention. A policeman in the passenger seat started talking to the well-dressed woman. The ease of the conversation suggested that the two of them knew each other. After a brief, animated discussion, the cruiser rolled away.

I suddenly realized what happened. While I was trying to psychoanalyze myself for the millionth time, the Bentley had pulled out of the gate behind me, my car parked almost sideways in the driveway. The driver must have come to my car to ask me what I wanted. And being the terrible driver that I am, I panicked. The driver was apparently the heavy set woman who looked like she wanted to kill me, and the well-dressed woman was the passenger.

I tried to rearrange my tousled hair. A couple of the hairs had caught in the steering wheel and when I pulled up to straighten myself those hairs pulled out and I winced in pain. Suddenly the well-dressed woman's face showed concern.

"I'm sorry. Did you hit your head?" Her voice had none of the charge that it did a moment ago. It conveyed compassion. Compassion without conditions.

My head was throbbing. I rubbed the sore spot and then pulled my hand away. It was wet. My hand was covered in blood. I screamed. I think I fainted.

* * *

It smelled good. I could swear it was freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. The original recipe. The Toll House recipe. I'd eaten enough chocolate chip cookies to know the genuine article. I opened my eyes. I was sitting on a plush chair in a kitchen that looked like something out of Architectural Digest. It was acres of gleaming white marble and stainless steel. The finest copper pots and pans, freshly polished and hanging in neat rows from racks suspended from the ceiling. And on the counter - two trays of cooling Toll House cookies, bursting with melted chocolate chips. I saw my entire childhood flash in front of me.

The well-dressed woman was now wearing something else. She had shed her designer clothes for something more practical. She was wearing a fine white linen shirt, open enough to show a pair of impressive breasts, though smaller than mine. Her cleavage casually displayed but in that was erotic to me. I tingled when I looked at her. She allowed herself a wry smile when she saw my reaction. It was a knowing smile. A smile that had been made a hundred times before.

I was so mesmerized by her breasts that I didn't see the plate of chocolate chip cookies she was carrying in her hand.

"Like what you see?" she said, her eyes seeing mine locked in on her breasts. I again sputtered incoherent babble. I was struggling to form a cogent response to her seemingly simple question.

"Uhhh ... yes," I felt compelled to answer truthfully. I thought it was better to tell the truth to a woman of this force and ... yes power. She was not to be trifled with, and not certainly by a woman in my position who had just destroyed the call box to her considerable estate. I was still staring at her breasts and could not take my eyes away, despite her question.

It was enough that I was being rude, but even more surprising that I was ignoring the one food I would crave the most on a desert island - a freshly baked Toll House cookie. It was one of many memories from my childhood in Green Bay, Wisconsin, yes, that Green Bay. The land of NFL football. When I was living at home I could debate the merits of a 4-3 defense or a 3-4 defense until the late hours of the night. I could name the members of the offensive line and their back-ups at each position. I had three older brothers and we were all as football crazy as our parents. I had everybody wear Packer green to my sixteenth birthday party.

But I digress. The one thing just under Packer football was the freshly baked chocolate chip cookie. This woman's stunning appearance in clothes that might look ordinary to someone else had completely disarmed me. Chocolate chip cookies could not compete with this woman's air of authority. I wanted to swim in it. I wanted to wallow in it. What other magical thing could she say to me?

"I mean the cookies." She said this in a nonjudgmental way (she must have been used to people staring at her perfect breasts), thrusting the plate of cookies in front of me so I had to unglue my eyes and look at the tempting baked confections, offered to me on an expensive piece of china. A napkin was underneath the plate. I gathered my wits enough to take the napkin from her hand first. As my fingers brushed against her long, slender fingers, another bolt, this one more powerful than the first, shocked me as I felt her skin, like the finest piece of material, silky smooth, and again with the subtle (and persistent) scent of freshly cut roses.

My nostrils flared to inhale her scent as she held the plate in front of me. My hand clumsily reached for the stack of cookies, knocking one skittering on the floor. She quickly drew the plate away before I spoiled the whole pile. I picked up the cookie that fell on the floor and put it on my napkin to eat (we had a five second rule in our house when I was growing up - if it was on the floor less than five seconds it was fine to eat).

"How about we sit on the stools over there? We can have our cookies there." She looked at my head, noticing the knot on it. "My, you must have had a scare." Her voice had not a tinge of hostility. It showed only concern for my well-being. I instantly relaxed. I felt the bump on my head that had now swollen to the size of half a golf ball. But there was no blood. The wound had been cleaned and the bleeding stopped. My hair had been washed. I was wearing different clothes.

I could feel that I was wearing the same bra and panties, but my best blouse was replaced by something far more elegant than anything I had even owned, or even tried on. It was silk. Chiffon colored. It had a tiny spot near the right breast. A dot of black. My designer jeans were replaced with another pair of designer jeans. These jeans were from a designer that was far outside my price range. I lusted after them but had never tried them on, knowing that if I did I would have sold my ten year old Honda Civic for two pairs of them. The jeans hugged, no caressed, my skin as my curves looked even better. There were two almost imperceptible specks of black near the left pocket. Otherwise the jeans looked like they were just off the hanger at a high end department store.

I may have emitted a purr of satisfaction as I felt the stone washed material rub against my skin as I followed her to a broad expanse of Carrera marble. The counter area had four stools with the seats made out of a hand tooled leather that were formed to hug your bottom. I sat in one, and the combination of the jeans and the perfect fit of the chair elevated me to another plane of contentment. She was sitting next to me, with perfect posture, watching me.

Of course. I was to try a cookie. I now focused on the cookie that was sitting on my napkin. I took a bite. A healthy one. The melting chocolate drizzled across my lip and started running down to my chin. Before I could use my napkin her finger darted forward and took the chocolate off my lip like a squeegee. Another ripple of pleasure went through me as I felt her finger tickle my lip. She looked at me so our eyes were locked together. She stuck her chocolate coated finger in her mouth and drew it out slowly, her finger now gleaming with her saliva. Her eyes sparkled as she savored the chocolate, tinged with the taste of my lips. Even eating a chocolate chip cookie was charged with sexual energy.

"Do you like chocolate?" Again, the voice melodious. Her voice flowed. I felt it wash over me.

"Yes ... yes," I stammered. Jesus. It was like asking a fish if it liked water. My life depended on chocolate. She had undoubtedly seen the half eaten bag of M&M's sitting on the passenger seat of the car. I couldn't answer the simplest fucking question with the grace of an adult. The smile again. The knowing smile.

"Well good, because I do too." She picked up a cookie off the plate and took a tiny bite out of it. So elegant. I doubt she dropped any crumbs when she ate a cookie. None were dropped with this bite. A smile of satisfaction flashed and then she turned her head to look at me.

"We have that in common, don't we?" Her voice was so disarming. Our course we do! I breathed in the smell of chocolate and her scent of roses. Ambrosia. I decided to say something coherent. Something adult.

"I love the smell of your perfume. What is it?" I hadn't smelled this scent before, but I found it captivating. I was going to make a mental note to buy it for myself.

"I'm not wearing any perfume." She said it so matter of factly, like she had said it a million times before. That thought was confirmed when she asked me her next question.

"What do you smell?"

"Roses."

I could see she stopped herself from giving me that knowing smile. I think she was trying to break that habit. Instead her face turned inquisitive.

"What color" she asked. I felt as it she had asked this question before as well.

"Red." I answered. "Bright red. Like the lipstick I'm wearing."

"Ahhh," she mused. "Like a color you loved in your youth."

"Yes," I answered. She had unearthed one of my most cherished memories. Seeing an early Judy Garland movie. Was it "Meet Me in St. Louis?" Her beautiful lips, the color of the roses I pictured I was smelling when she was next to me. And her voice, as perfect in pitch as Judy Garland's voice. The memory warmed me. As I was basking in that warmth I saw her take another nibble from her cookie, savoring the taste as she would a fine aged Bordeaux.

"Judy ..." Her voice trailed off for me to complete my thought.

"Yes, Judy Garland," I blurted, almost shouting. She said it as if she were reading my mind and disgorging the contents of my thought process. Who was this woman?

"Her lips were the color of those roses, weren't they?" she asked in a manner that told me she already knew the answer. I was getting spooked. A shiver went up my spine.

"Yes," I said, my voice now almost a whisper, humbled by her presence. I had surrendered already. She had an uncanny knowledge of me. That look when I was sitting dazed in the car. That look that shined a flashlight on my soul. The woman sitting next to me was proving my premonition. She knew everything about me. Everything that was important.

"You were looking for me," she said, not saying it as a question but as a fact. Of course she knew.

"Yes," I said in a resigned tone. She was pounding in the fact that she could read me. I wondered what she would say or ask me that would shred whatever defenses I had left. I had to know how she knew, or if she could even explain herself. "So how did you know that?"

"My address was written on the pad of paper sitting on the passenger seat of your car."

Of course. Now I really looked like an idiot. Maybe she couldn't read my mind. Perhaps everything could be explained, but that Judy Garland thing got me. Any shred of perceived privacy I had was vaporized by that observation.

Her comment did hurt me, even though her answer was truthful and innocent. It hurt because I looked stupid. She stroked my hand with hers. The sting was replaced by a feeling of warmth and gratitude. She was consoling me. The emotional sting was followed by physical pleasure. I wanted more. I didn't know why I wanted more. But whatever it was, I wanted it. I wanted that feeling again.

She must have known that. She stroked my hand again, but this time rested it on top of mine. Her hand, with fresh red nail polish on them, covered my hand. I relaxed. My eyes got a bit hazy. I then noticed that the color of her nails was the shade of red that I had pictured in my mind only moments earlier. I started to wobble in my seat. I wanted to lie down. I started to lean into her. She caught me before I could fall off my stool. I was unnerved by her. How did she know when she had her nails done that the color she selected was the one I was going to picture in my mind? I was falling, physically and emotionally.

"The color ... it was the one in my mind," I confessed. I was sure that she knew already.

"It's my favorite shade of red," she told me. And then to disprove my theory, she added, "I've been wearing this color for thirty years."

"I guess we do have something in common," I said, this time right on target.

"Yes," she said, curling her fingers on her left hand so she could inspect the polish.

"Oh no," she said, but without a great deal of concern. "I think my nail polish is chipped."

I leaned forward to see the fingers on her left hand. The small fleck of polish on the index finger had chipped off.

"I'm sorry," I said, as soon as I realized that when she caught me from falling off my stool my diamond stud earring had hit her finger and chipped off a bit of nail polish. "Now I owe you a new call box and a trip to the nail salon."

She smiled. It was a genuine smile. Then the smile morphed into something that was a bit more ominous. "I'm sure you'll find some way to pay me back," she quipped. It sounded like it was in jest but it wasn't. What the fuck had I gotten myself into? But did I really want to get out? My head wanted to run. My heart wanted to stay.

"You'll of course join us for lunch ... that is unless there's someplace else you need to be." OK. She was back to the mind reading. Of course I had nowhere else to be. And she hadn't even asked me why I was looking for her.

"Why ... I'd love to ... but I don't want to put you out." I added the last part so I wouldn't sound desperate. Truth be told, the house would have had to have been on fire for me to leave at that moment. My heart had not only decided to stay, but was thinking about moving in. I wanted to spend every waking moment listening to this woman talk to me.

She threw her head back and let out a hearty laugh. "Oh no. You won't be putting us out at all. In fact, it will be you that will be putting out to pay."

My eyes raised at her last remark. "Excuse me?" I said, my indignation suddenly rising.

She looked startled at my reaction. "I said we'd like to put you up for the night if you want to stay."

My mind reeled. as my mind playing tricks on me? She was looking at me, expecting an answer.

"That would be lovely."

She leaned forward in her seat and wrapped her arms around me and hugged me.

"I'm glad." Her eyes sparkled again. I smelled roses.

* * *

I found myself seated in an atrium, between the woman/bodyguard I saw earlier on my left, and another woman, Asian in appearance, sitting on my right. The woman on my left was still wearing the same jeans but had changed into a cut-off t-shirt. The tattoos on her arms were green serpents circling her arms, as if they were crushing it. Her hair was bleach blonde, sticking up in spikes. She no longer was glaring at me, but rather sitting ready to enjoy a fabulous lunch. In front of each of us was a butter lettuce salad garnished with poached shrimp and grapefruit. I could smell the champagne vinaigrette that created a sheen on the lettuce leaves.

The woman sat on the other side of the table. One against three. The Asian woman made no move to introduce herself to me, but seemed to be lost in her thoughts. Her appearance was alluring, long straight black hair and porcelain skin, almost translucent. She was wearing a form fitting formal Chinese dress that flattered her figure. The elaborate gold embroidery was set against a background of green. I could swear it was Packer cheese gold and bay green, but I was not trusting my senses, including my sight.

"Cassie, meet Soo." She knew my name. She could have read it off my driver's license.

Soo looked at me, her head tilting slightly to the side as she appraised me, wearing someone else's clothes. "I like you," she said in the finest Queen's English. Her conclusion had the ring of finality. I thought it only fitting to reciprocate.

"I like you too Sue," I said with my Midwestern twang when pronouncing "Sue."

"Soo," she corrected me with a different inflection, one that I didn't recognize.

"Soo," I said, butchering the pronunciation again.

She smiled at my feeble attempt. "Soo," she said again for me benefit.

"Soo," this time the inflection improved.

"I knew I liked you." She looked at the woman and the woman gave a slight nod, acknowledging Soo's approval.

"So ... you were looking for me?" This time it was a question demanding an answer. I sat upright, trying to show my best posture.