What Happens in Her Office

I knew it was her the moment my phone began vibrating. Anxiety flooded my senses -- the good and bad kind -- goosebumps spreading across my skin. God, this woman had such an effect on me that a mere text from her made my back straighten, my thighs squeeze, my nipples perk.

I closed the textbook I'd been referencing, capped my pen, removed the bonnet from my head to let my braids fall down my back. It was eight o'clock at night and I had a paper due in the morning. This was what I got for waiting until the last minute to do work I'd known about for a week. Now, I would probably need an extension, because, more than likely, I would not be coming back to this desk tonight.

I put the book in my backpack along with my notepad. Maybe I could finish in my car before school started.

My phone vibrated again, the two minute reminder of an unread text. I opened the iMessage waiting for me.

Turquoise, her message said.

A smile spread across my lips.

***

I swiped the card she'd given me in the beginning, the gate to the parking garage lifting to let me in. The garage was practically empty, a few cars on each level. This was very different from the few times I'd come in the morning, every spot in the garage taken. I'd had to use a valet for the first time in my life, which I hated. I didn't like anybody driving my baby but me.

I went to the roof and parked in my usual spot. The hot wind blew pleasantly tonight, trying to sneak a peek under my overcoat. I looked off into the distance, the city tiny and glittering at this high altitude. I'd always imagined living in a studio with this kind of view. I would gaze at the city and remind myself never to be a patron of it again, I was meant for more, I was meant to be great, not another black girl living in a rent-subsidized apartment scattered with people who didn't care to dream anymore. Broken people. Shattered people.

Now isn't the time, I reminded myself, shaking the intruding thoughts away. There was no time for pity or sadness. There was only time for motion and to keep going.

***

I wasn't sure what her occupation was. All I knew was that her office was on the 58th floor. You needed a keycard to even push the number on the elevator, and still a security guard demanded, "State your business here," before approving or declining the request.

The first time his voice had boomed from the speaker I hadn't known was there, I'd nearly jumped out of my heels. He'd had to repeat himself while I regained composure.

"Um," I'd stammered, unsure what to say. Was I supposed to be honest? Was I supposed to be discreet? She had given me all the keycards, but hadn't prepared me for this section of security. "I'm here to see Ms. Patra Smith."

He had let me up.

Now, I simply said her name - Ms. Patra Smith - and he would allow me up.

A security desk was the first thing you saw when the elevator doors parted. John, the night shift security guard, came around the desk and waved his metal detector wand over me. He did this when I came and again when I was leaving.

After all those layers of security, I was able to stand at her door. I didn't know it was her door because her name was on it. It wasn't. There was nothing on the polished redwood door but a palm reader. The only reason I knew which unmarked door was hers was because I counted them as I walked down the hallway. Hers was the 32nd.

"Three two," I said out of habit. Then I said, "one" and pressed my hand to the palm reader.

***

"Good evening, Beatrice," she said.

I hated that she insisted on using my full name. I went by Bea. Everyone called me Bea. Why couldn't she just call me Bea? Even still, butterflies started in my stomach at the sound of her voice.

"Evening, Ms. Smith."

"I hope my text didn't disrupt your night."

"You're never a disruption."

"What were you doing?"

"I was asleep. I have an early class tomorrow."

"Did you finish all your work?"

"Yes."

"Good girl. I'll try not to keep you too long since you have an early morning."

As she always said. Somewhere in the night that information always floated from our minds like snowflakes.

"Hang up your coat."

I went to the coat hanger and did just that. When I turned back to her, she smiled, admiring the turquoise teddy I wore.

"That color on your skin," she said, nodding in approval. She stood, coming around her desk, red-bottoms clicking against the marble floors as she made her way over to me. Her slow, graceful gait drove my anxiety through the roof as I waited for her hands, her lips, her body to reach me.

"Tonight," she said, "I'm going to watch."

"Watch?" I asked.

She was finally in front of me, but she didn't touch me. With her right in my face, I could see the frustration in her brow. She'd had a bad day. Those were the days the sadist lurking inside her came out to play.

She looked over at her couch. It was only then that I noticed the machine set up there. My heart jumped.

"Do you know what that is?"

"I've seen them in porn. Never in real life."

She grasped my hand and walked me over to the couch. On the end of the machine was a dildo. When turned on, the machine would thrust at any speed the operator selected. I'd always wanted one for myself. They were too expensive for an unemployed college student.

"On your back," she said.

I did as I was told, lying on my back, spreading my legs. The excitement was hard to contain. I'd been aching for her for two weeks, my body craving like a fiend while I waited for her to summon me.

She pulled the center of the teddy to the side, revealing my pussy. She slapped her hand over it numerous times, my clit jerking in response. I was so sensitive, so ready.

"Have you seen anyone since the last time we were together?" she asked.

"No."

"Don't lie to me."

I moaned as she began circling my clit voraciously. "I'm not."

She manifested a pair of handcuffs that she locked onto my wrists. "Your hands stay on your chest."

I nodded.

She coated the dildo in lube and pushed it inside me. Oh, it felt so good.

"I was going to ease you into it," she said. "But since you've lied to me, you're receiving none of my mercy."

Of course she knew. Why else would she have asked?

I started to explain, but she turned on the machine. Instantly, the dildo was thrusting in and out of my pussy with what felt like the speed of lightning. I watched, whimpering and thrashing, as she walked back over to her desk. While that machine fucked me mercilessly, she sat at her desk looking over papers, typing on her laptop. She didn't start watching until I was begging her please to stop.

"This is what happens to liars," she said back.

The orgasm ripped through my body unexpectedly, my pussy squirting all over the dildo that was already coated in thick white cum. My eyes rolled to the back of my head as another orgasm overlapped that one.

My entire body was one exposed nerve being picked. Never had I been fucked so hard, so fast, so good. Never had my G-spot been so violated. Our safe word was on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn't say it. This beating felt too good to put to an end.

"You're going to be so sore after this that you'll never forget who you belong to."

My hips came up off the couch as I came again, squirting more than I ever had. I heard the machine still going, heard Ms. Smith berating me, but everything was so far away. Never had I blacked out during one of our sessions until that moment.

***

This arrangement between me and Ms. Smith began in an unorthodox way.

I was in one of the downtown casinos drinking and gambling my troubles away. I'd lost most of my money at the blackjack table, deciding then to go to the machines that took change. I was primarily sitting there for the consistent drinks the cocktail waitresses provided. I was over the entire night, but there was nowhere for me to go while my mother was still fuming. Hell, I probably didn't even have a home anymore since she'd walked in on her boyfriend trying to make a pass at me.

A voice from the seat beside me said, "Here."

I looked over. She was extending a makeup wipe to me.

"What's that for?"

"You have eyeliner trails on your face."

I couldn't have cared less, and I wanted to say this to her, but I hated the thought of being one of those people that took their anger out on a helpful stranger.

"Thank you." I wiped my face as best as I could without a mirror in front of me.

She took a sip from her drink, watching me. "I didn't know they still made eyeliner that isn't waterproof."

"It was ninety-nine cents, so..."

She pulled the knob on her machine without looking away from me. Why was she staring so hard? Had she never seen a busted girl sitting at a casino machine?

"What?" I said.

"Man troubles?"

I tossed the wipe inside my empty glass. Where was that waitress?

"No," I answered. "No man troubles. Is that why you're here?"

I hadn't meant for it to sound snappy. I was just in a sour mood and couldn't control my emotions.

She laughed and took another sip of her drink. It was blue with an orange slice on the rim and one of those decorative umbrellas. Some kind of fruity, tropical, sitting-on-the-beach type of drink. Looking at it made me think of the sun beaming and a cloudless, blue sky.

"Long gone are those days," she said. "I haven't had man troubles since my early twenties."

She didn't look too much older than her twenties, except for the black pantsuit and burgundy blouse she wore. That outfit aged her up, but still her face was relatively youthful.

"You must be celibate," I said.

She laughed again while I tried to flag down a waitress.

"Absolutely not. A lesbian is what I am."

"Oh ok. Woman problems is why you're here then."

"There you go."

A waitress finally came over, but she breezed past me and asked the lady beside me if she needed anything.

"Just a water, please," she said, slipping the waitress what looked to be a twenty dollar bill.

"Coming right up. And you?"

Her smile wasn't as bright when taking my order. I thanked her when I was done, feeling embarrassed I didn't have money to tip her.

"What kind of woman problems are you having?" I asked.

"My lady left me." She blew out a breath, mindlessly pulling the knob again. "Went home after work the other day and there was no sign she'd ever been there. Packed up and took all traces of herself."

"Sorry to hear that."

Her machine began jingling and chiming, signaling she'd won. She paid it no attention.

"It's odd not having anyone to go home to when you've had someone for so long. Almost eerie."

"How long were you two together?"

"We were roommates all our college years, then lived together as a couple afterwards. It's been more than ten years. And I saw it coming. That's the bad part. I saw it coming when I looked in her eyes and there was nothing I could do to stop it."

I had nothing to supply as consolidation. None of my relationships had developed into cohabitation, or even hit the one year mark. I didn't know what it was like to have someone to go home to or what it felt like to lose a decade old relationship. I could only sit in silence.

"But, you know, that's how life is: some things you can prevent, some things you can't."

We were in silence when the waitress brought our drinks. She lingered to talk to the lady, asking if her seams were crooked. The lady assured her they were straight, but still she lingered, telling her where she shopped for her skirts, how her mom didn't approve of their length, how she liked the feel of the breeze up her legs...how sometimes she wore panties and sometimes she didn't.

"Which did you decide today?" the lady asked.

"I show, I don't tell," the waitress said back, her voice low and flirty. Then she walked away.

When the lady remained sitting, pulling the knob and sipping her drink, I said, "I think she wanted you to follow her."

"She's not my type. Besides, I have an empty house to get to."

Well then, I thought, taking a large swallow of my Long Island.

The woman stood. She extended a card to me.

"In case, later on, you feel like telling me your troubles. I'll listen like you listened to mine."

Then she was gone.

***

"Beatrice. Beatrice. Beatrice, wake up."

Her angelic face was the first thing I saw as the cloudiness receded.

I looked around. We were still in her office, still on the couch. The cuffs and machine were nowhere in sight, a blanket covering me.

"I'm sorry," I started.

"Don't be. Just rest."

I closed my eyes and inhaled. Ouch. It hurt to even breathe. A smile came to my lips.

"I liked that," I said.

She brushed a braid behind my ear. "I know you did. That's why you didn't say our safe word even though you were overwhelmed."

"I was taking my punishment like a good girl."

"You've never passed out before. You haven't been taking care of yourself, have you?"

I said nothing.

"Here you go again trying to punish me by punishing your body." She took a deep breath and let it out, her brown eyes solemn. "You know I'm a busy woman. You know work gets in the way."

"My mom used to say people make time for the things they want."

"If you're unhappy with this arrangement, you're welcome to terminate it."

There was no emotion in the statement, no care, like if I exercised that option it wouldn't matter to her one way or the other. It probably wouldn't considering she could have any woman she wanted. My replacement would be here the following night and she would still have a pussy to take her frustrations out on, while I went back to struggling to pay for my education.

"Don't do that again. I don't care how upset you are or how lonely you're feeling. Make sure you're eating." She grabbed my face, her coffin nails digging into the skin of my cheeks. "And you better make fucking sure you never fuck anybody else without my permission."

She let me go and went back to her desk. I laid there watching her as I always did after our sessions. She was magnificent in her pencil skirt and blouse and those heels, her long hair down her back. She'd told me once that her hair was naturally curly, but she straightened and relaxed it regularly. I wanted to see it natural.

If only it didn't have to be this way, her paying for my education, me repaying with my body. What would it be like to be out in public with her, to go on a date, to go grocery shopping, to come see her and talk about what's troubling her and what her coworkers and boss had done that annoyed her. Real talks. Real interactions. Not me lying in bed waiting for her to contact me. Not her telling me to exit her life if I wasn't happy with our lack of intimacy.

I closed my eyes and imagined I was in her home, in her bed. All I could do was imagine because it would never happen. Ms. Patra Smith was out of reach. Totally and utterly unavailable.

***

I called her that night because I was lying on the bathroom floor of the casino feeling like death, and she was the only person I knew I could call. My throat was sore from retching, my mouth dry, my body felt like I'd thrown up a truck. It was a terribly lonely place to be. Having her ear to talk to, her voice to listen to, was exactly what I needed that night to pick myself up. It continued to be what I needed to stay up.