9781618859617TheSecretLifeofanInvisibleGirlDeVere (3 page)

Over and over I drew out the length of his cock to the head
and then plunged the whole within me, his balls hitting against my ass with
each fierce jab. I moved faster, and he dug in his heels to second me, piercing
me with increased force until he lifted me, prompting another orgasm. He came,
groaning and thrusting through the pulsing grip of my muscles. When the crisis
passed, I relaxed and fell on him.

“I should not have done that,” I said, my eyes brimming
with tears. I felt trapped by the elevator, by circumstances, by everything I
could not control. He brushed my hair from my face and must have sensed I was
on the verge of devolving into a horror show. Leaning his forehead against mine,
he brought his hands under my hair to the nape of my neck.

“Everything will be all right,” he whispered.

His words, his voice calmed me. I wanted to believe him. If
he had said anything else, I don’t know how I would have reacted, but I moved
off him and picked up my papers. I kept my back to him, staring at the elevator
buttons and waited for him to arrange his clothes.

“I’m working on the Johnson murder,” I said. “I can’t do
this.”

“I didn’t realize he had switched lawyers.”

“Well, now you know.” I released the stop button, and the
elevator moved. We rode in silence until the doors opened to reveal a group of
people waiting to board. In the crowd I recognized Simon James, a fifty-something
attorney from the firm, looking first at me and then to John. Simon had a habit
of leering at me in a way that made me self-conscious. I avoided him and left
without looking back. After I dropped off the pleadings, I walked back to my
office and shut the door. I attempted to focus on work and replace my dilemma
with a useful purpose. I tried to concentrate, but I was distraught. It seemed
every step I had taken to get to this moment had been misplaced. I could not
gain perspective and could not think straight. I thought I could cry myself out
of it, cry until I was exhausted and then go on, continue because there would
be no other option. A knock on the door interrupted my motivational reverie.

I wiped my eyes and stretched, trying to gain my composure.
“Come in,” I said at the end of a deep breath. Simon entered and shut the door
behind him as though he were slinking behind the curtain of the X-rated movie
section at the video store. He had a
cat
that ate the canary
look and I knew if he was the cat, I was the canary.

“What’s up with you and Hawkins?” he asked with a knowing
grin.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said without, I hoped, any
expression. But I’m a bad liar. I blush, fidget, avoid eye contact, and look
down. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist or any kind of scientist to figure out
that I’m lying.

“You fucked him, didn’t you?”

It was a rhetorical question. I didn’t answer. I suppose my
response should have been feigned outrage to keep up the illusion, but I didn’t
have the energy, and I knew I was beaten.

“What do you want?” I kept my voice level, meeting his
stare.

“I want you.”

I didn’t have to feign outrage then. It spread through me
like fire, and I rose from my seat. “Get out.” I ordered and stalked to the
door.

I reached for the knob. He grabbed my wrist and spun me
around. “Do you think this is a game?” he hissed, his face contorted with anger
and disgust.

He frightened me, and I cringed, hating how he made me
cower. “Let go of me.” I tried to shake off his grasp. He pulled me to him by
my wrist and brushed the side of my face with the back of his other hand. When
he bent to kiss me I turned my head. Pinching my cheeks together with his hand,
he made me face him.

“If you don’t cooperate, I’ll let everyone know your little
secret. You’ll lose your job, and if that doesn’t matter to you, Hawkins will
lose his and likely his ticket. How many cases do you think you’ve
compromised?” he spat. He let go of my face and turned his back to me. I should
have run, but I didn’t. I thought I could reason with him.

“You’ll damage the reputation of the firm,” I said. “I
won’t see him again. I’m not going to see him again.” I swallowed my commitment
to my impulsive resolution.

He turned back to me with a smirk. “You should have thought
of that before you spread your legs, sweetheart.”

I knew he was being deliberately crude to shock me, to
control me, to scare me. “You’re married,” was all I could muster, as though
that has ever stopped a man like Simon from fucking another woman.

“
Here.
” He took a key from his
pocket and handed it to me. “Meet me at the Estate Motel, room nine, at eight
o’clock tonight.” When I didn’t take it, he took my hand and put the key in my
palm where I thought it would burn a hole. I glared at him, and he smiled. “I
keep a room there to take advantage of…opportunities. Be there or don’t bother
coming in to work tomorrow.” He pulled me toward him again. “I’m
gonna
make you scream,” he whispered in my ear, running his
hand down my back and groping my ass. Then he left.

Everything about Simon made me seethe. I marveled at how
the thought of identical acts with different men could evoke such contrasting
emotions. The confrontation left me nauseous, guilt ridden, and shaken, but it
had the desired effect—my desire, not Simon’s. Purpose replaced my despair and
freed my mind. Like the Grinch on the mountaintop, I got a wonderful, awful
idea, but instead of my heart growing three sizes, I grew a pair.

I grabbed the Dictaphone from my desk, and when I was sure
I was the last person on the premises, I walked over to the safe used to keep
client confidences. I knew the combination and had opened and used the safe
many times. I took out a semi-automatic handgun—
Fabrique
Nationale
D’Armes
de Guerre
Herstal
Belgique
, .32
caliber, serial no. A86540. The gun was a murder weapon the police had never
found. From my research on the case, I knew it was the same type of gun used to
assassinate Archduke Ferdinand at the start of WWI and that this particular weapon
dated to WWII. I had never held a gun and an electric surge coursed through me.
I ran my fingers along the smooth barrel and weighed the satisfying heft. It
reminded me of the first time I’d held a cock—the strength, power, the
potential, excitement, and fear.

The gun along with a black pouch containing four .32
caliber rounds and a two round clip and the recorder went into my purse. I
walked out into the night, knowing it would mean a one-year minimum mandatory
prison sentence for carrying a firearm without a license if I was caught, and
made my way to the Estate Motel toward the possibility of a far greater
punishment.

I know what you’re thinking. “Now she’s lost her mind.” Again,
you may be right, but at the time it all made absolute sense to me as though
there was no other course, the rightness of it plain and undeniable. In my
operator’s manual sexual blackmail was under the section “Do Not Attempt.”

Chapter Three

The Estate Motel was a one-level monstrosity of fourteen
units sprawled into an L shape with an office at one end. What was not building
was asphalt parking lot. A large neon sign on top of the office announced “
E__ate
Motel” and made the motel look like a giant
segmented centipede with a hat. I arrived early, before Simon, going straight
to the room to avoid any staff while checking around the parking lot and along
the corridor of doors to confirm there were no surveillance cameras.

The air in the room was clammy, reeking of mildew and stale
cigarette smoke. A garish brown and tan flowered comforter covered the double
bed in the center of the room. On a small bedside table were a telephone,
bible, heavy ashtray, and a fringed lamp. The objects seemed shabby and used
like items found at a yard sale. I shoved the bible and ashtray in the drawer,
disconnected the phone, and put the cord in my purse. Sitting in a chair beside
the bed, the farthest from the door, I waited.

At ten past eight I heard a rattle at the door, and Simon
entered. When he saw me, his face burst into a triumphant grin. I had half a
mind to shoot him right then, but the other half stopped me. He threw off his
suit jacket and loosened his tie. I turned on the Dictaphone in my purse,
placed it at my feet, and stood up. “I have a proposition.”

“Oh, do you?” He leered at me.

“I thought maybe you’d like me to strip for you or do you
just want to fuck?”

He licked his lips in surprise. “Wow, you don’t waste any
time. You’ll strip for me?” he asked in astonishment.

“Yes, didn’t I just say I would?” I purred, or at least I
tried to purr. “But,” I added, “you can’t touch me until I say you can.”

He smiled and nodded in agreement. Although I knew he
believed he could touch me whenever he wanted, I also knew he would humor me as
long as he enjoyed the game.

He sat at the edge of the bed facing me. “You are a little
slut, aren’t you?”

Sweeping my hands under my hair, I lifted my arms into a
stretch and arched my back. When I swung my arms down, my hair fell on my
shoulders framing my face, and I unbuttoned my blouse. He stared at me and took
off his tie. Peeling off my blouse, I dropped it beside me, and then unzipped
my skirt, letting it slip to my feet. I stepped out of my skirt and kicked it
aside. As I stood in my underwear, thigh-high stockings, and heels in front of
him, he sucked in a breath.

“Do you like what you see?” I asked.

“Yah,” he exhaled.

“What?” I said. “I can’t hear you.”

“Yes,” he said louder.

I unhooked my bra and pulled it off one arm at a time.
After dangling the black lacy garment before him like a hypnotist, I dropped it
on my blouse. My nipples hardened from the cool air, and I caressed my breasts
with my hands and moaned. He moved to get up, and I took a step back.

“No touching,” I said, “not yet, but you can join me. Why
don’t you take off your shirt?”

He relaxed back onto the bed and removed his shirt.

“
Mmm
,”
I said, “I like a man with hair on his chest.”

Curling my thumbs on either side of my panties, I dragged
them down my legs and stepped out of them. When I straightened, he gasped, and
the arousal that comes with power consumed me. The lips of my cunt swelled, and
I slid one open hand down over my stomach to my slit, brushed my clit, and
dipped a finger into my wetness while I brought the other hand up to my breast
and pinched my nipple.

“Jesus,” he said.

“Take off your pants. I want to see your cock,” I demanded
looking at him.

I was close to losing control, and the tenuousness, the
danger of my position added to my exhilaration. He rose and stood about three
feet from me, and took off his pants and briefs, revealing his stiff cock
jutting from between his legs.

“Do you want to fuck me?” I asked. He took a step toward
me.

“
Sshh
…wait.”
I stretched out the word, and he stopped. “I want to taste your cock.” I licked
my lips. “Close your eyes.”

He did.

Anticipation froze the moment allowing me to morph from
enchanting vamp to vindictive vixen. Silently reaching around Simon I whisked
away his discarded clothes and stashed them beside my own with my purse,
drawing the pistol like a bandit. From Simon’s shock and reaction when he
opened his eyes, I must have seemed a wild naked woman shaking a gun at him,
but in my mind’s eye and memory, my hand was steady, and I was calm.

“What the—”

“Shut the fuck up and sit down,” I warned from six feet
away.

He was afraid, or I should say he was more afraid than I
was. I was willing to play my cards and lose what I had put down. I was all in.
It was an orchestrated bluff, and I was committed to it. Cock wilting, he sat
on the bed.

“Let me tell you what just happened,” I said. “I have a
tape I can send your wife.” I took out the recorder and showed it to him. “I’m
sure she’d be interested in the room you keep here to take advantage of
opportunities.”

I had met Simon’s wife several times at firm events, and
she struck me as a woman who would not suffer infidelity.

“You’ve gone mad,” he said.

“You should hope not,” I said. I didn’t know if I would
pull the trigger, but I believed I could.

“I won’t tell anyone about you and Hawkins. Is that what
you want?”

“Yes, but that’s not all.” He waited for me to continue. “I
can’t work with you at the firm after this.” I waved the gun indicating the
situation. He recoiled, and the realization that he also believed I could fire
gave me courage. “I think it’s time you opened your own shop.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” he asked.

“I want you to resign and leave the firm.”

“You’re fucking crazy.”

“No, I’m greedy, but not as greedy as your wife would be.”

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“Do I look like I’m negotiating?” I asked in my best George
Clooney imitation because life is sometimes exactly like the movies. I almost
laughed but counseled myself to remain alert and cautious. I didn’t want to be,
well, cocky. While he considered, I bent down and put the recorder in my purse.
Struggling to dress with only my free hand, I never lost sight of him as he
squirmed, searching for a break. When I was finished, except for buttoning my
blouse for which I needed two hands, I straightened with the gun still on him. “Think
of it as taking advantage of a different kind of opportunity.” I picked up my purse
and his clothes and moved toward the door.

“You’re taking my clothes?” he asked.

“Of course, I don’t want you following me.”

“How am I supposed to get home without my clothes?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

“You fucking bitch.”

“Yes, but I’m not your fucking bitch.” I walked out of the
room. After I shut the door, I stuffed the gun in my purse, dropped his clothes
in the dumpster, and ran. I didn’t stop until I was out of breath and then leaned
against a telephone pole. I buttoned my blouse with my hands shaking, my heart
racing in relief and disbelief. I went back to the firm, put the gun and
ammunition back in the safe, and took the cassette of our rendezvous with me. I
felt like the director of a play at the end of the first act and focused on the
next challenge–luring John Hawkins to the dark side.

* * * *

I got home late and poured a bubble bath with very hot
water to calm me down and wash away the events of the night. Soaking in the
deep tub in the dim light, my heart pounded in my ears, and the water scalded
when I moved. I withdrew from the world and what I had done. I meant to plan,
but instead closed my eyes and emptied my mind of schemes until all I could
hear in the quiet was the sound of my breathing. The sharp burn of the water
followed my hand to my crotch. Spreading my cunt lips to expose the soft flesh
to the heat, I gasped as the water entered and lapped against my clit like a
tongue. Bringing my other hand to my breasts, I touched the flesh, soft and
warm, my chest rising and falling, nipples exposed out of the water. I caressed
the tender inside of my arms and swirled circles around my breasts lightly with
my fingertips until the nipples hardened. Slowly, I pushed two fingers into my
cunt slippery with my arousal, the hot water invading where I opened. Hooking
my right leg over the side of the tub, the porcelain pressed cool against my
calf, sending a shiver through my body. I reached for the washcloth and folded
it over, rolled it, and twisted it into the shape of a cock. Sometimes a girl
has to improvise.

Closing my eyes, I thought of John Hawkins, and only him. I
dipped the stiff washcloth into the bath and brought it swelling with water
between my thighs and against my slit, moving the hard tip between my nether lips
and against my clit. Drawing it to my opening, I pushed it within, feeling the
resistance and the pleasant slide against the walls of my cunt as it filled me.
Releasing the rest of the washcloth, it blossomed in the water, floating and
licking against my clit and the inside of my thighs, gentle and rough. My
breathing grew heavy, and beads of sweat trickled from my temples down my face.
I passed my tongue over my lips, tasting the saltiness and gripped the sides of
the tub, savoring the sensation of my throbbing cunt. One hand pulled and
pushed the cloth, while I teased my clit with the other in a slow motion fuck
suspended between a dream and a fantasy. I came panting, my cunt clenching
against the washcloth wedged in my body, and I pulled it out slick with my
fluid. I unraveled the cloth, soaped it up, and washed my face and body until
my skin turned red from the heat and scrubbing, soft and clean. After my bath
and exhausted, I slept without dreams or thoughts straight through until the
morning.

Then, like an unexpected avalanche on a clear cold day,
everything went to hell.

In the light of the morning what I had done the evening
before frightened me. Only then did I realize how horribly wrong it all could
have gone and could still. Putting substance to my fears, the first sign that
the fickle gods had turned against me came on the train in the form of the gray-bearded
overweight conductor who’d replaced the one with beautiful hands. When I
arrived at work, I learned Simon had called in sick, which set me on edge, and
my first assignment was to sort out his schedule and get continuances. I walked
over to court for the nine o’clock call. On my way over through the parking lot,
I saw John Hawkins leave his car with a tall stunning woman with long dark
hair. The silent movie unraveled as I did the same. They kissed. When they
parted she walked away, laughing and waving. He smiled and waved in return.

My heart stopped and suffered the instant stabbing pain
unique to heartache when it resumed beating in a different broken world. My
mind, hoping to spare my heart, and calling in reserves rationalized. “Well, he
didn’t waste any time, did he?” and “He’s obviously not worth it. You deserve
better.”

What made matters infinitely worse was not that I had
committed at least two felonies—probably more—to protect him, but that she was
by far more beautiful than I could ever be and I had no claim to him, anyway,
no basis in reality for my mass mutiny of emotion. I shook off the scene and whatever
it meant, what I knew it meant, and concentrated on the work I had to do.

For the following week I lived in a world where I
controlled nothing and anticipated disaster around every corner, a juggler
losing concentration. Simon stayed away from the office. I could only guess he
was planning retaliation, but could do nothing but wait. I was never good at
waiting. I tried to put John Hawkins from my mind and in the process of trying,
defeated the purpose.

On Thursday night of this hell week, I attended the Horace
Gray Society’s annual
Shakespeare and the
Law
black tie event at Faneuil Hall,
Othello
and the Art of Judging,
or from my
perspective,
A Mid-Hell-Week Intellect’s
Dream
. I was alone. No one else from the office had wanted to go. In spite
of the formality, I hoped for respite, an island of distraction, wrapped in
history and austerity in the hall where Daniel Webster once eulogized John
Adams and Thomas Jefferson and now haunted the trays of hors d’oeuvres and
stingy yet seemingly endless glasses of white wine. I nibbled and drank without
counting, reveling in the abundance and anticipation of a pure academic
exercise. Sitting toward the back, I used the chair beside me for a table and surveyed
the assembled strangers who promised an evening free of any drama except for
that of the Bard.

Then I saw John Hawkins across the room. I tried to ignore
how my heart beat faster and the hand holding my glass became sweaty. I
couldn’t ignore how beautiful he looked, a lock of hair falling on his
forehead, smiling, at ease with one hand in his pocket. Before I could move he
saw me and raised his glass in my direction. His gaze pierced through me like
an arrow, agitating the pain and pleasure of our connection, a pittance of pain
compared to when the arrow came out and focused on the woman who joined him,
the same woman from the parking lot. She tossed her head and waves of auburn
settled on her shoulders. She smiled and spoke to John, and he didn’t turn back
to me. I looked away to my pathetic plate of appetizers that had suddenly
become unappetizing and swallowed the rest of my wine.