The Girl with the Man with a Plan Ch. 04

Everybody on my sales "team" was down on the sixth floor. Once again, it was not a very efficient operation; it's just the way it had always been. When I went down there for some reason (which should have been about four times a day), all work stopped, and the temperature seemed to drop about thirty degrees. I scared them. I didn't want them to hate me... I wanted them to respect me. But I just didn't seem to have the capacity to make that happen.

So instead, I sent Polly. She had the exact opposite effect on the temperature. I'm not sure she demanded the respect I sought; but I had to admit, love was better than hate in a work environment. And eventually, she started getting things done. I found out later that they'd nicknamed us "The Angel" and "The Troll." I'll let you figure out which was which. Soon, it became common knowledge: if you didn't do what The Angel said, you could expect a visit from The Troll. And I soon stopped having to go down there at all.

One afternoon, near the end of the month, I saw a secretary from the third floor giving Polly some money. When I inquired, it turned out that my executive assistant had loaned a friend money in an hour of need. That, as it turned out, was happening more and more often. I asked her to explain the operation to me, and she did so; showing me a locked metal box inside a locked bottom desk drawer, and a ledger with neat entries. It was a truly insane way to do business. She made no interest, and she forgave almost a third of the loans due to "hardship." By rights, she should have nothing left.

"Where is the money coming from?" I asked.

"People donate to the fund," she answered. "I put in a hundred every paycheck. Others who have been helped pay back a little extra when they can. It adds up."

I called her crazy. Then, the next day, I gave her twenty fifty-dollar-bills to add to her little "fund," with the stipulation that no one ever know I'd done so. It earned me the best blowjob of my whole life. It also added to her reputation. She was becoming "The Angel" to the entire company.

Rodriquez next visited us on February 19th, which was a Wednesday. We actually had business that had to be done before he whisked Polly off to the same hotel. Their days together were starting to be routine, at least in my mind. I suppose clandestine love affairs, no matter how unorthodox, tend to take on that sort of persona in most people's minds.

Two days later, on Friday, sometime a little after noon, I heard a loud moan that I recognized as Polly in the grip of intense pleasure. I got up and walked to her desk, where she was frantically looking around. She was shaking all over, and beet-red in complexion. I laughed. "What in the hell are you doing?"

She was still glancing everywhere, obviously panic-stricken. "Oh, sir! Do you think anybody else heard that?"

I looked around, too. It appeared that everyone had gone to lunch.

"What's going on?" I pressed, still bemused.

"Please, sir! Please don't make me show you! I'll let you see it as soon as we get home, I promise! Please?!"

Disgruntled but mystified, I allowed her to get back to work. But the poor girl never did regain her natural coloring. She blushed (and blushed hard) for the rest of the day. I'd never seen her so distracted.

As soon as we arrived back in the apartment, I demanded to see whatever she was so nervous about. I rather thought that Rodriquez had made her wear something that had somehow given her an orgasm. If that was the case, I was going to really lay down the law! I had given him my girl for a day only. He should have no influence over her the rest of the time!

She disrobed, just as she disrobed every time she came home. It was one of my rules, after all. But instead of revealing something hidden on her person, she walked to the dining table and opened the laptop that was always there. It took about a minute to completely boot up. I watched as she opened her personal email program, and she then clicked a message from Rodriquez. In it, there was a link at the top, and some text underneath. I didn't have time to read it. She clicked the link.

It was a porn site. Immediately, a video started. It took me a long time to figure out what I was looking at; but finally, the perspective snapped into focus in my mind. It was a woman's vagina. Her butt was resting on a bed, and her legs were raised. Ropes had been tied at her knee joints, spreading her wide. I could see more rope higher up on her body, and it dawned on me that her entire body was being restrained in that position. However, almost the whole frame of the video was that shaved vagina. At first, nothing at all seemed to be happening. But then, slowly, slowly, a large dollop of oily moisture formed at the top, all around the clitoris; and it oozed downward, coating the labia and outer lips, then disappeared into the bedding below. Just as slowly, another large droplet formed and worked its way to the bottom of the frame.

The fingers of a man's hand suddenly appeared and began playing with the labia, stroking and tugging and pulling. Fingertips spread the lips wide, then let them close, then spread them again. Two fingers together probed into and out of the orifice; and the exercise was repeated; spreading, petting, stroking, plunging in, pulling out. Eventually, the entire vagina seemed to relax, seemed to accept, seemed to settle into this natural state of wet, glistening arousal and openness.

The fingers disappeared for a moment, and then they were back, holding a small white plastic vibrator. It started circling the clitoris. Almost immediately, the vaginal opening flared wide, gaping, cavernous; then it clinched tightly closed; then dilated wide again; then clenched shut. And then, finally, through the laptop's speakers, Polly's voice moaned loudly, hesitated, and moaned again. The video ended. It had been running three minutes fifty-two seconds.

"Oh, sir," Polly whispered. "What am I going to do?" She was shaking.

I stood her up and took her into my arms. She clutched me desperately. "I assume you didn't know you were being recorded."

"No, sir! I was tied up! Blindfolded! And I was SO turned on! I couldn't even think!"

"Do you want to press charges against him?"

"Good heavens, no! I'd die, sir! I'd just die!" She tried to get control of herself. "He says that this is the most popular porn site on the internet. He says that it's almost a certainty that someone in our company has seen this. So... when a man walks up to me, I can't be sure; he might have seen me like that. I'll never know."

I held her tighter. "Polly, only Rodriquez and I have ever heard you make a sound like that. We are the only people who can appreciate the fact that this is you. No one else is ever going to know. You realize that's true, don't you?"

"Yes, sir." She shivered again. "But still, if a man...."

"I know of several women who would get exceedingly aroused by this, too."

She sighed deeply and shivered once more. "Oh, my God."

I laughed. "Do you want to stop seeing Rodriquez?"

She thought about that. "No. I want to keep going until I can figure out how to get him back together with his wife."

"Then what else is there to do?"

"You could fuck me, sir! Hard! Right now! I think I'm going to go crazy if you don't!"

And so, I did.

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On March 13th, two things happened. First: Rodriquez contacted our office and said he wanted to spend a day here the following week. As you might guess, that was sort of a code we used. Polly let me know that he would be using her on Friday, the 20th. It went pretty much as planned. What we hadn't known at the time was that he was visiting his parents in Seville. He flew out of Madrid on the morning of the 20th on a flight that was mostly empty. That was because of the second thing that happened on the 13th: The president had banned all passengers from Europe (except the U.K. and Republic of Ireland). Oh, yes... and except for U.S. citizens. Rodriquez was born in New York, and had a U.S. passport, so he got to fly. (Most of the Non-U.S. citizens bound for this country still got here; but they rode a train to France, took the Chunnel to England, and flew out of Heathrow.)

I eventually learned that he hadn't been tested for Covid, either in Spain before departure or at Dulles Airport, where he went through customs and then connected to PIT. That made sense, too. Covid tests were pretty scarce back then; and, after cases started mounting, most test kits were sent to hospitals for use there. If there was any airport "testing" at all, they simply used a digital thermometer to take your temperature. But in this case, they hadn't even done that.

Rodriquez was pretty wiped out after the long trip over, but he was still able to please, and be pleased by, my lovely sex slave.

Polly got sick on March 27th.

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One of the places on a sociopath's "Least Favorite" list is anyplace medical. And, if you wanted to follow that list to its unmitigated pinnacle, it would be the emergency room. Any emergency room in the world on March 29th was unadulterated, utter bedlam. I kept her at home for two days, until she had begun having trouble breathing, before I took her in. That's what they were urging us to do. So, that's what I did. I waited until I couldn't wait any longer.

Less than a week before (on the 17th) doctors had stopped seeing patients in person. It was the beginning of "Telehealth," and since there was no actual "National Healthcare System" in the U.S., it had to be implemented by literally thousands of different private healthcare providers. It was, however, mandated by the federal government. All "elected surgeries" had been cancelled. And by that, they meant: all surgeries that were not absolute emergencies. Cancer surgeries, heart surgeries... all canceled. That was to clear space in "Intensive Care Units," or ICU's. And that, of course, was where Polly was bound. Or, at least, that is where she should have gone, if only there had been room for her.

Before that, we got to spend eight fun-filled hours in a waiting room filled to overflowing with people who were scared to death. Polly was one of those. And she was one of the lucky ones. She had insurance. I shudder to think what it was like for the poor bastards who didn't.

Every breath she took was a gasp. She had a splitting headache, and she couldn't control the shaking muscles in her body, which had a temperature of 101 F. She cried because she was somehow certain that she would never see me again, once they finally found a bed for her. And yes, everybody else felt exactly the same way. I "put her to sleep" after a long time, simply because I could no longer witness her mental anguish; and it was then that somebody or other thought she had lost consciousness and took her back to whatever the next step in the process was. I was not invited, but I was told to stay there until somebody came to talk to me.

After they paged me, a nurse met me at a large double-door that she wouldn't let me through. She seemed like a nice lady, but she looked like she was about to drop dead from exhaustion. Polly had awakened for her, though; and as a result, the nurse was now firmly under my secretary's spell. She had joined the long, long list of individuals who were in love with Polly. She told me that she would do absolutely everything that could be done to return her to me, alive and healthy. I nodded. She'd given this little speech before. She'd give it again. Soon.

She handed me a clear plastic bag. It was a big bag, and it held mostly small items. Polly's clothes were in it, her shoes and blouse and pants. A smaller clear bag held something else, and when I recognized it, my heart almost stopped. Her earrings, her locket necklace... and her nipple rings, twisted and bent after being cut and removed. In case she has to be resuscitated, the nurse said. She couldn't be wearing anything metallic.

The sight of those mangled little gold rings did something to me, though. I couldn't just take this lying down. I had to be part of the solution. I just didn't know enough about the problem yet. "Tell me what you lack," I ordered.

"Ventilators," she answered immediately.

I blinked. "What are those?"

"I don't have time to explain. Look it up."

I nodded. Fair enough. "Who's in charge?" I asked.

"Of the place she's going?" the nurse asked. "Doctor Griswold is the head of Intensive Care, but he can't...."

But I was already walking away. "Many thanks," I said loudly, waving over my shoulder.

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Anything can be had for a price. Well... almost anything. When things are scarce, they get expensive. And, when they're really, really scarce, they get illegal. That's what I always thought, anyway. But this was turning out to be a whole new shade of both scarce and illegal. I didn't have any problems with the legal part. Like I've said, differences between right and wrong hold little sway in my mind. Money might not be a problem, either. It all depended on the consequences I was willing to face.

I've mentioned that before in the opening paragraphs of this little diatribe. Those words might have been misinterpreted. Just because I have the presence of mind to consider consequences doesn't mean that I've always chosen the legal option when faced with that choice. I have broken the law before in the field of business when I felt confident that I could get away with it. I believe a pretty large percentage of successful businessmen (and women) have done the same.

There are many rules when it comes to dealing with illegal business entities, none of them written down, but all firmly inscribed in my mind. Chief among them are: Always remember the names of people you have dealt with; and, Hope nobody remembers yours. Also: Always assume that second one won't happen. It's an interesting branch of business that ought to be taught in college, but obviously never will be. Rules of normal business are intended to be broken; everybody expects loopholes. But in illegal business, it's assumed that your word is your bond. Often, your very life depends on it.

I am not going to go into what illegal business dealings I have undertaken in the past. I mean... I'm still around, and I don't want those things to come to light. I will say, however, that I had never dealt in the clandestine area of illegal medical supplies. But... I knew a guy who knew a guy. Back in our apartment, I set the wheels in motion. Time was of the essence, but I recognized that it WOULD take time; so, as soon as my first round of phone calls were made, I had to exercise patience.

The one thing I was incapable of doing was sitting around worrying about Polly. In my mind, she was out of my control. I couldn't see her. I couldn't hold her hand and comfort her. There was literally nothing else I COULD do on her behalf that I was not already attempting. I don't know why the idea suddenly popped into my head. I got up and walked over to where I'd put her personal effects, and I rooted around until I found the locket. Inside, I was surprised to find it contained a small picture of me. And, of course, the little key. I knew where the journal was kept: in the middle drawer of the dresser, under her panties. I'd seen her put it there.

It's much harder to shock a sociopath than a normal human being. But what that small volume contained shook me to my very core. I have never been so utterly, thoroughly, devastated by any written words; and I doubt... no, I sincerely hope... that I will never be again.

I won't directly quote anything that was written there. It's quite frankly hard for me to even paraphrase it. The journal was written for me, and me alone. It contained a list of instructions that I should accomplish in the event of her death. It was exceedingly well written and exceptionally well thought-out, itemizing and listing each action in exacting detail. But it was split into two parts based on dramatically different circumstances, which must not be confused. Pick the proper contingency, she urged. And, if it was the first assumption, her directions must be followed explicitly, exactly, in order and to the letter.

The question that I had to answer before I started my tasks was: Had I been responsible for her death?

There followed an excruciating list of procedures that, if followed, would hopefully turn her murder into the perfect, undetectable crime. She had gone so far as to pack a large box in our storage area in the basement, which contained rolls of sheet plastic, plastic bags, detergents, a bone saw (what the fuck is a bone saw?), caustic acids, rolls of duct tape, and on and on and on. There were horribly gruesome illustrations on proper methods of dismemberment, knocking out identifiable dental work, removing fingertips, and other incredible topics. There was a diagram of commercial dumpsters around the city where small parcels could effectively disappear.

And then came the second part of the journal; the one that assumed that her death had been caused by an accident or illness. It read like the codicil of a will. Please put the balance of her bank account in a college fund for the niece and nephew, please give her earrings to her friend Suzie, in Accounting. And, lastly, there was a love letter to me, telling me that, one way or the other, I had been the most important thing in her life; she loved me; and yada yada yada.

I was thunderstruck. However, as I contemplated this horrendous document, my phone rang. It was the beginning of phase two in my "illegal acquisition" scheme. I flipped an imaginary switch, and the journal no longer existed in my mind. I wrote down names and phone numbers, gave thanks and promises that I might or might not keep, made other calls, gave more promises, found a map and started calculating driving times, called bankers, and checked stock market options and broker fees.

I was not surprised by my destination. The state of Kentucky is home to two huge Army bases: Fort Campbell, which houses an Airborne Division and a Special Operations Regiment, and Fort Knox, home of the Armored Cavalry school and numerous supply depots (including, of course, the national gold reserve). There are dozens of National Guard bases in the state, as well.

An hour later, another choice had to be made. There was simply no other option. I was going to have to steal the money from the company. I didn't have enough of my own that I could lay my hands on at such short notice. I shrugged. That's another benefit of my condition. Once an inevitable conclusion has been reached, there's no use obsessing over it. I'd weighed all the options; and in the end, consequences would have to be faced. Before this was all over, the job I had worked so hard for would most likely be forfeit. I might be in prison. I shrugged. It was my only logical course of action. My conclusion was final, and there was no turning back now.

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By the time my "decision" had been made, it was after midnight. Remember, the vast majority of my day had been spent with Polly in the emergency waiting room. I did not sleep well that night, and not for the reason you might think. Compartmentalization is an extremely reliable tool for those of my emotional ilk. I had put the journal out of my mind, back under a different lock that had a different key. The reason I didn't sleep was that I was not feeling well. Physically well, that is. There was one very obvious potential reason for this, but I put that thought into its own locked compartment.

Most banks had closed for Covid because the CDC had come out with a rule that demanded "six feet of separation," and they were afraid of liability. The U.S. president had established a "council" to address this and other issues, but each televised meeting had turned into an almost pathetic circus of contradictory advice, leaving individual businesses to pick and choose their own rules until state governments could step in with THEIR mandates. I finally contacted a bank president that would meet me at 4:00 and cash the huge check that I actually had the authorization to write. Once again, I'd face the repercussions later. I was prepared for that.