The Maneater

Author's Note: An antihero is not a villain, but rather a main character who does NOT have the selfless qualities of a traditional hero. The antihero focuses on themselves first, often with little regard for others. And it's the selfish actions of the antihero which might benefit others.

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Prologue

The song is sung in a male voice, as a warning to other men:

"She'll only come out at night,
The lean and hungry type.

...

She's deadly, man,
And she could really rip your world apart.
Mind over matter,
Oh, the beauty is there,
But a beast is in the heart.

O-ooh, here she comes,
Watch out, boy, she'll chew you up.
O-ooh, here she comes,

She's a man-eater!"

...

Lyrics from the song "Maneater" by Darryl Hall and John Oates, 1982.

Intro

The reflection in the building's mirrored foyer walls of the lithe figure confidently striding toward the doors reaffirmed my choice of dress. The tight leather black mini dress might have been a little out of place in the afternoon. But it served its purpose in the counselor's office.

Exiting the building, as I walked across the parking lot, I saw two early twenty-something-year-old guys, with one leaning his butt against the driver door of my car as they casually talked.

I can read people, judging their posture, the way they dress, their hair, and how they take care of themselves. These two SCREAMED "bark with no bite," lanky, cocky types who posture in front of each other. They were probably here waiting for some group counseling. Maybe drug-abuse rehab, or some petty criminal, court ordered "try to fix this useless kid" the misguided people think will help 'save' him.

They turned to look at me, and the one leaning against my car glanced down at the hood of the car realizing it was mine, but not moving. If he had seen a man like my husband come out and walk this way, his type would quickly scurry away, like the rodents they are. But he probably thinks he's going to have some fun against a woman.

Stopping about four feet away from them at the front of my car, I gave him a cold stare and commanded "Get off my car!"

He smirked and chuckled before saying "Huh ... maybe for a blowjob," as if he could intimidate me. He expected to make a woman crawl and ASK him to 'PLEASE would you let me get into my car,' or make some impotent threat. That's what he was really looking for; a reaction, showing he was in control.

Shifting my left foot out firmly into my dominatrix pose, I harshly replied "Well, whip it out and let's see it. I'll suck your cock, ... or bite it off!" I opened my lips to show him as I snapped my front teeth together. "Do you feel LUCKY?" Then I angrily added "... Well, DO you!?" demanding an answer. There was no fear in my voice, only a determined assurance we could do it, but it would be MY choice.

The surprise and brief flash of fear on his face was priceless, as if he should check his groin to make sure it was still there. But he tried to recover some dignity in front of his friend. Stepping away from my car, he walked in the opposite direction to put more distance between us, muttering "Let's go and leave this crazy 'Catwoman' to play with her own pussy."

A Few Weeks Earlier

Fidgeting in this comfortable chair in front of his desk, I smooth my skirt over my knees as we sit in this small office. I tried to listen as my boss was droning on. But I've heard this before from his predecessors over the years. First comes the praise of my work, then ... and my patience this time was wearing thin.

"And her knowledge of financial regulations and our company's controls is perfect, always providing us with guidance to avoid controls violations," Glenn read from the sheet before glancing up at me. "Jan, everyone I've polled has only good things to say about your knowledge and technical performance in your job."

"They should," I confidently replied, giving him a stern look. I pushed my black-rim, thick glasses up higher on the bridge of my nose, a nerdy look I retained from my high school days long ago, which comes in handy at work. There was almost no sexy to the way I dress in the office. I'm certainly not going to send the wrong signals to my boss or co-workers that I might have earned a pay raise by other means. I deserve a pay raise for the quality of my work, and they know it!

Reminding him of my accomplishments, I added with a slight hint of anger, "The clients assigned to me never have any significant findings or fail an audit! I've kept them all out of trouble for years."

"BUT ...," Glenn went on with emphasis, and I knew what was next. He looked down to continue reading 'She should work on her people skills.' Here's another good one, 'Her sarcasm knows no bounds.' And another says, 'She can be abrasive and insulting.'" He looked up and added, "They all say things like that as your only negative."

"I could play at being nice to be popular," I pointed out sarcastically, "... and be dumb as shit, like Michael!"

"Michael isn't bad," Glenn said defensively. "He gets along well with the customers, just like Barbara."

"Oh, come on!" I insisted. "Why are you making excuses for him? He almost lost that one account. Barbara and I spent two days straightening out the mess he made with the 'advice' he gave the customer. He's useless, with zero knowledge of accounting!"

"But he's friendly," Glenn said again.

"Just being nice doesn't get the job done," I insisted. "Sometimes stupid people need to be told they're stupid, or they'll never learn."

Glenn looked down shaking his head before looking up again, saying, "You can't go around insulting people. You even do it to senior managers," he insisted. "And some of those comments came from our customers!"

"In my performance review," I noted smugly "you need to point out at least one area for me to improve. So, you should write down; 'I'll work on that.'"

Glenn chuckled again as he wrote a note. Then he looked up seriously saying "Jan, if you were anyone else, I'd have fired them months ago. But you get the job done. And even the customers who complain about your attitude still want you overseeing their accounts."

"You said pay raises this year might be between three to six percent. So, do I make the threshold in my review for a six percent pay raise?" I asked with a coy smile.

Glenn rolled his eyes in frustration. "I'll make a deal with you; I'll recommend you for the pay raise, ... IF you agree to go to counseling for your abrasive attitude."

"This is who I am," I said harshly. "If you want the job done right, it's the price you pay. So, I'm not paying a counselor to tell me what I already know."

"If I write it as my recommendation in your performance review, the company will pay for those sessions," he said in a frustrated tone. "And I'll allow you to log the travel during the day and the time in the session as overhead hours, since this is performance improvement." Then he softened, adding "Jan, ... work with me here. I need to do something for MY performance showing I'm taking action to fix issues and complaints. So, go to counseling, and I'll try to get your pay raise approved."

The Business Club

After changing clothes in the lady's room, I left the office to meet my husband for drinks after work. The knee-length skirt, conservative blouse, and low-heel comfortable shoes I wore earlier were replaced by this asymmetrical neckline, pretty little black club dress, a right-side, one-shoulder style with a cutout exposing my cleavage and a slit exposing my right hip almost to where my panties would be, if I wore them.

I decided to go 'commando' this evening to tease my husband. I find it intriguing that men can get excited just knowing the woman they're talking to is naked under the dress. So, I try to play with men's imagination.

I'm trying out new knee-high, brushed black suede, four-inch heel boots with the dress this time. The gap between the boots and a skirt highlights the legs. So, I think these taller knee-high boots will narrow the gap to emphasize my toned thighs. And I wouldn't choose shiny suede or vinyl because it would distract from the skin of my legs.

My long, dark auburn hair was released from the athletic pony-tail band and now brushed free for my preferred flip over style. I bring most of the hair over my bare left shoulder, hanging beside my face for strategic use. It gives me a seductive look, and I can partially hide my face when coyly glancing to the right, ... which is usually to hide an involuntary smirk at something stupid. I'm right-handed, but I deliberately use my left hand to part my hair on the right to confuse people. They intuitively assume I'm left-handed. Such subtle body language mis-signals help throw others off-guard.

Adding a little mascara and eyeliner, contact lenses, along with a necklace dangling down to draw the eyes as a pointer to my cleavage, and I'm 'dressed to kill' before going to the Satellite Club.

When I came out of the elevator at the club's penthouse floor, I took a few steps in and to the left, stopping to pause with my right leg out slightly to expand the slit opening, exposing more of the thigh and hip. I only balance evenly over my feet when I want to send a dominatrix look to intimidate.

In college, some of my girlfriends said beauty pageant consultants taught them that girls should pose with one knee turned in and "Never show the inner thigh." It's for the demure, innocent girl-next-door look. But I'm not innocent. Posture and a pose send a signal. And my leg out gives the subtle suggestion of 'naughty girl, open, ready for action' to draw men's attention.

The spacious room around me held the club's bar to the right with a few scattered small tables, chairs, and couches. The dark oak of the room's walls matched the bar's, helping the bar blend in to keep it from being the main attraction. And the bright lighting gave the room a more 'working' feel, rather than a nightclub atmosphere. The maître d podium stood twenty feet away straight across from the elevator doors at the entrance to the restaurant, and the hallway off to the left led to several conference rooms.

The patrons were split into small groups of two to four people each, as members quietly discussed their business with clients in relative isolation. People pause to look up when the elevator doors open, sometimes expecting friends or clients to arrive. So, I take this opportunity to catch their attention.

I scanned the room from right to left and back, taking in my audience until most of their eyes turned toward me. It only takes a moment for the twenty or so, mostly male club members and their clients to stop talking and look up. Then I briefly nodded to the room, acknowledging those I recognized, smiled, and walked over to the bar.

"I poured your usual, Jan," Jill said, remembering the cognac I've ordered in the past.

I appreciate the staff here always remembering my name. And I'm not even a club member!

"... Thanks, Jill," I replied with a cheerful smile and acknowledging nod. Picking up the brandy snifter, I moved to the nearby low table beside the large window overlooking the city, where Ted was waiting. I took the comfortable chair across from him, crossing my legs so my lack of underwear wouldn't be blatantly obvious.

My husband wore a dark gray, nicely tailored Brooks Brothers suit, a white shirt with French cuffs, and a blueish Jerry Garcia tie (my favorite tie designer.) This wasn't his usual look of jeans or Dockers with a polo shirt for work. Normally, I'd need to tell him how to dress to look decent when we're going out. But at six foot three with his 'salt & pepper' graying black hair and athletic build, he always looks rather handsome any way he's dressed ... or even undressed.

I could call Ted in from cutting grass, and in thirty minutes he could look like James Bond in a tux for a formal affair. I adore a confident man who knows himself, and casually projects it. It's not only about what he's wearing, but the attitude he projects when I see him. I don't like men who are cocky and faux confident, who desperately try to project an attitude of being "God's gift to women". Confidence is one of those subtle things which says, "I know who I am, I'll do what I want, and nothing you think can bother me."

But with Ted's attire tonight, I wondered if he had ulterior motives inviting me to his business club this evening.

Through his work as a computer consultant, Ted has a membership in this upscale private, members-only club. He's a system architect and troubleshooter in a technology consulting firm, highly paid due to his high IQ. His company Vice President, boss, and friend, Walt pays for his membership here as a perk to use, mainly as a place to take their disgruntled clients when discussing how he'll fix their problems.

After taking my seat at Ted's table, I started; "Glenn told me I need to attend 'performance improvement' hour-long sessions with the company's personnel counselor." It was said with a hint of frustration and using my fingers as air quotes for 'improvement'. "He's making my pay raise contingent on attending three counseling sessions."

I raised my brandy snifter of Hennessy XO cognac, adding "Cheers! To higher salaries," with the words dripping in sarcasm. I'll see if Ted asks the club to charge this thirty-dollar shot to his personal credit card or if he'll expense it to his company card. There are no prices on any of the menus at this club (only members know the costs), but I've seen some of his monthly club invoices. And he knows if I see the charge on his club invoice and the statement for his card, I'll take it out of his allowance from our family budget. But if he's invited me here as his 'arm candy' to meet a client, he'd better expense our drinks to his company!

"Cheers," and he raised his glass of scotch in salute. "So, you didn't try to argue your way out of counseling? You know why we both behave so differently. You said it yourself once; 'We both came from fucked up families,' ... although I didn't consider mine fucked up."

"You know you're different, too," I said, dismissing his point. "As good looking as you were in high school, you were a loner and never associated with ANYONE until I ordered you to take me to the Prom!"

"If you thought I was so handsome in high school," Ted started, "why did you wait until Prom of our senior year to ask me to take you on a date?"

"My best friend, Marlene and I had issues with the bitch squad throughout high school," Jan explained. "Going out with a geek like you would have been like throwing gas on a fire. And you lived five miles away from me. So, I focused on tormenting Gretchen and her friends, since she started the fight with me four years earlier."

"Then why ask me to take you to the Prom?"

"I didn't ASK you to take me, I TOLD you to rent a tux and take me!" I said, correcting him. "... Marlene had a date with a guy from another high school, she met him at 4-H camp. So, she dared me to get a date, too. I picked you as an easy target. ... And why didn't you ask ME out earlier?"

"Basically, the same reason," he admitted. "I was comfortable as a loner. ... You looked a little nerdy in high school, with your baggy jeans, sweatshirts, and those black rim 'coke bottle lens' glasses. And I knew you didn't date anyone. Rumors were that you and Marlene were a couple, so I assumed you'd turn me down."

"No, Marlene and I were just friends, there was nothing sexual. Those rumors were started by the bitch squad."

"But you changed that first night I picked you up for our date three weeks before the Prom."

"Betty, the woman I worked with at the diner, gave me a lot of advice on how to dress and style my hair for our first date," I explained. "And she told me to ditch the glasses and get contacts. When I walked into school the Monday after our date, with my new look, I could almost hear the jaws drop on all those boys who dissed me over the years. After that, I enjoyed the feeling of power I had over them, with just a little effort."

"And by the way," Ted added, "being a loner wasn't my family's fault."

"Your mother was emotionally distant," I reminded him, "running her house like the orphanage she grew up in. You know it wasn't normal."

"It doesn't make her fucked up," he said defensively. "A lot of people grew up in orphanages, so it makes her a subset of a different normal."

"Whatever," I said in frustration, ending the discussion of our dysfunctional pasts. "So, are we meeting your clients here this evening? One of these days you're probably going to suggest I bed one of them, so your company can win a contract. And you know even the suggestion is going to make me angry!"

"Bullshit," he said assertively. "I don't invite you here for our client meetings! Walt sends those texts telling you, 'You're welcome to join us.' It started years ago between you two, when you told him you could get almost any man to do whatever you want. He dared you to prove it. He knows you enjoy flirting as a hobby, and Walt's the type to never miss an opportunity to use people. He sets the stage and invites you to join us, dropping you like a bomb on his target."

I still remember the surprise on Walt's face the first time I came here on his dare. Walt was halfway through presenting his contract proposal when I knew enough of the details to take over. Then I invited his clients to follow me out of his "boring" meeting to lunch in the restaurant (at Walt's expense), leaving him standing there speechless. Their boss agreed to sign the contract by the time we were sharing dessert. Ted's company Vice President learned I could own him any time I choose!

"I kind of like that analogy," I said with a chuckle "... dropping in to destroy them."

"Walt's a lot like you, exploiting people whenever you want something."

"And you're not jealous?" I asked, wondering how my husband of thirty years really felt about the dynamics between me and his friend.

"Do you have fun flirting with and teasing his clients?" he asked light-heartedly.

"You know I do," I admitted. "I've always had fun teasing men at parties. Walt gives me more opportunities. It feels flattering to know they're lusting for me."

"Walt and I have been friends for almost thirty years," he pointed out. "He's known you almost as long. So, I don't blame him for inviting you here to have your fun. You wouldn't do it if you didn't want to. ... But don't take it any further than flirting, or you and I will have a problem," he finished harshly.

"You know I don't mix work and sex," I said. "But I don't work for his company, so I'm free to have fun here teasing his clients. ... You're all I really want or need in bed. And we've both agreed to keep our swinger life discrete."

"You seem to enjoy fucking other guys at the house parties," Ted said.

"If it ever bothers you that I enjoy sucking and fucking guys at those parties, we can stop playing in the lifestyle," I assured him, knowing he really likes those parties too. "I don't need to do anyone else. ... But you like Maggie and some of the other women, ... and I like watching you with her. I'm just having some fun at those parties, finishing what I start when teasing the guys there."

"Tonight," he explained, "I thought this would be a nice 'date night', just the two of us."

"I do like their service here," I admitted. "So, thanks for thinking of me this evening."

The club manager came over to us. Dressed in his nicely tailored suit, he first nodded to my husband, the club member, knowing that Ted pays the bill. Then giving me his gorgeous smile surrounded by that hot-looking, dark skin, he addressed me saying "Your table for two awaits, Jan, whenever you're ready."