All that to say, here's the first half of The Adjusters #35, as a teaser, until I get the rest up sometimes tomorrow night. Again, your patience is vastly appreciated.
The Adjusters #35 - A Wedding and a Lead
(Point Pleasant, West Virginia. Two months ago.)
He sneaks into the church with all the other guests--it is a large wedding, the parish church struggling to contain everyone--and nobody notices him.
That is a certain advantage with large groups, near anonymity--nobody gives him a second glance. But it has the potential of making it more difficult to find the bride. There is still an hour to go before the official start of the ceremony, so he is not worried. Not yet.
He will have to venture in the back of the church. Not a problem. He heads in that direction, and begs an elderly lady who shots him an initially distrusting glance for directions to the nearest restroom. She finally takes pity on him and walks him down a small recessed hallway.
It is a single-person restroom, which is what he hoped for. He locks the door, then buttons his shirt all the way up after sliding on a clerical collar. A quick turn of the comb, and he feels confident he can pass off as a minister. A distinct advantage of religion--a singular respect for authority figures. He grins to himself in the mirror--if he cannot pass off as a clergyman, he has little business with godhood, does he not?
Back outside, he takes a second to orient himself. The actual minister is the only person he really needs to avoid. He has to find the bride. He walks slowly, paying attention to noises and opening and glancing at the room beyond every door he encounters. He crosses path with a few people, but they do not say anything beyond a respectful "Good afternoon." He merely keeps his face gentle and neutral.
Beyond one door towards the end of the hallway he sees a mirror and clothes piled in a corner, and he sighs softly when he sees a bridal veil hooked on a chair by the wall. But where is the girl? He enters and closes the door behind him, trying to remain quiet. Then he hears a faint noise, and freezes.
A whisper. "Ssshh... Stop it--I heard something."
"It's all in your head." That one is a man's voice, louder.
"No, I'm telling you. I heard something." Still whispered, but louder. A woman's voice.
With a eery sense of calm he does not really feel, he notes the deep curtain used to block out the large bay window, and hurries to hide behind it.
And just in time, too.
"Fine," he hears. "Hold on. I'll check. Look--" the voice is louder now, coming from the direction where he has seen a door that he assumed was a closet. "There's no one here."
"Still," the woman's voice this time, giggly and nervous at the same time. "You shouldn't be here."
"Ah come on," the man says, amusement in his voice. "It's not that thing about seeing the bride before the wedding, is it? That's just a bunch of hooey, honey."
"I don't know..."
"It is... now kiss me. You look so hot in that dress..."
He picks up sounds of kissing coming from the other side of the curtain, followed by sounds of rustling.
"Lucas, what are you doing? Behave yourself!" the girl says, with another nervous giggle.
"Come on, Chris. I'm getting desperate here! You want me to explode right there during the ceremony? Or even just have a plain old big boner the whole time, sticking out of my pants?"
The girl--Chris--laughs, and there is more rustling.
"How about a little head, Chris? A quick one, just to take the edge off. I can eat you out, too, if you want. It'd be hot with that dress up around your waist..."
"Lucas! I told you, no! I love you, I'm going to marry you, and I'm going to spend the rest of my life with you, but I'm not taking your.... I'm not taking you into my mouth. It's gross! You pee from there, for Pete's sake!"
"Well, I eat you out!"
"And that's your choice. I'm certainly not asking you to do that. But you enjoy it, and I sometimes think you do it more for you than for me."
"Hey, that's not fair!"
Chris snorts, but her tone grows softer. "Fine. Okay, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. But it's true. Look, you enjoy giving oral sex; I don't. So don't ask me to do it, please?"
"But it's our wedding day. A little treat, you know? Something special..."
"Hey! Don't make me out to be a prude, okay? Who was it that let you fuck her in the laundry room at his brother's place last week, while his family was in the other room? So there's one thing that's off the sex plate. Deal." Her tone of voice is starting to rise. "Now just drop it."
Lucas sighs exaggeratedly. "Okay, okay. But that's just because you're staring at me with those big innocent blue eyes that you know full well I can't resist."
Chris laughs, still sounding a little edgy. "Good. Now kiss me some more, you big log. And come in the other room--you're right, I should help you take care of that little... problem you got in your pants. Not that you deserve it, but I think a quick hand job would do the trick, don't you?"
Her voice fades somewhat as she guides her fiance through the door once more. "I'll let you come on my thighs, if you want. And I won't clean up. So you'll know your cum is dripping down my legs all through the wedding...."
Lucas's moan drifts away as the couple leaves the main room.
He remains behind his curtain for a moment, wondering what to do next. He has no intention of wasting this opportunity. It is time for some Godly acting.
He steps out from behind the curtain after a quick peek to ensure the room is clear. What he thought was a closet door is almost closed. Soft moans and sounds of flesh rubbing on flesh can be heard. He makes his decision quickly. He goes to the main door, opens it without attempting to cover the noise, and steps loudly on the floor a few times, grunting out.
Immediately, a startled cry comes out of the adjoining room, sounds of mad shuffling, and whispers. He grunts again. "Who's there?"
A few seconds later, the groom emerges from the adjoining room, red faced, adjusting his jacket. "Oh... Reverend... I'm sorry... I didn't think..."
"Who are you?"
"I'm... I'm with the wedding party... I'm..."
"You should not be here. This area is restricted."
"Of course... I... huh... we..."
"Leave, now."
Lucas, the groom, looks back towards the adjoining room, and after a moment's hesitation leaves in a hurry.
The door to the adjoining room is mostly closed, and there is no sound coming from it. He looks at it, smiling to himself. He closes the main door behind him, and locks it.
He waits a few seconds, then calls out to the bride. "Miss? I know you're in there."
After a long pause, there is some shuffling, and a head peeks out of the slowly opening door, face red with embarrassment. "Huh... Reverend?"
He pinches his face into a frown, trying to look as disapproving as he can. "Come here, Miss."
The bride, Christina, emerges from the room, looking crestfallen. The redness on her face goes all the way down her generous cleavage. Her dress is tight, hugging her body close, revealing round curves and long limbs. It goes down mid-thigh straight, remaining tight the whole way down, the material wrinkled and bunched together horizontally in fine lines. Her legs, wrapped in white nylon, are simply perfect.
He must have stared for a moment too long, and certainly in a way unbecoming of a minister, because Christina is frowning by the time his eyes have made their way back to her face. Her voice is uncertain. "Reverend...?"
There is no time to waste. He takes the two steps separating him from the bride, and although she reflexively moves back, he presses his fingers into the soft flesh of her naked shoulders.
The familiar sensation runs up his arm, and his fingers tingle on her skin. Christina's face grows blank.
He sighs with relief, and lets his fingers run down her shoulder to her sternum before dipping down the valley of her breasts, teasing the gentle slope of flesh encased in her dress's corset. His cock, already hard, twitches in expectant excitement.
She is more beautiful even than on the pictures he has seen--porcelain skin, round piercing blue eyes, large breasts, long legs. She is a model, Lizzie told him. And now, she is his, ready to be a Vessel for her Lord.
"Christina," he says, raising his palm to her face. She is looking at him expectantly, the tip of her tongue teasing her upper lip. Her breathing is deep, which does wonderful things to her breasts. "I am your Lord, your Savior. I am the Light that illuminates your life and reveals the Truth. You are my Servant. You are my Vessel."
Christina's face flushes red again, this time with arousal, and she lifts a hand up to her chest, as if to hold it in. It rests on the cleft between her breasts where his hand was a moment earlier. Bright red fingernails tipping dainty fingers tease him with the promise of playful scratches.
"I am yours, my Lord. I am your Vessel. Do with me as you please." Her voice is filled with unmistakable lust.
His cock throbs.
His hand on her face trails down to her mouth, and he runs his index finger over her ruby red lips. Her breath catches.
His eyes looking deep into hers, he slides his thumb between her lips, and she gently slurps the invading digit inside, wrapping her tongue teasingly around it, scratching against the nail.
He thrusts his thumb deeper, and without prompting Christina starts to suck on it, softly at first, then more vigorously. Her eyes never leave his.
He is starting to see why Lucas was so keen on getting head from this pair of lips--she looks like she was created to do exactly what she is doing now, sucking on something thrust in her mouth.
He sighs. He is under a time constraint--and indeed, the groom must still be around, and is bound to come and investigate what has happened to his dearly beloved if she does not emerge from the room, but good sense takes second stage to sheer lust. The feeling of Christina's mouth suckling on his thumb makes his cock twitch in synchrony, and he wants to feel her mouth on his shaft. She has probably never sucked on a man before--but here she is, about to have her mouth invaded for the first time by a God.
"Christina," he says, pulling his thumb out of her mouth and moving to unfasten his pants, "prepare me, for I shall penetrate you and shower you with the gift of Life Eternal."
"Prepare you, my Lord?" Her look is half innocence, half wickedness.
His cock springs free, hard and angry and demanding attention.
"Have you ever pleasured a man with your mouth, Christina? Held a hard shaft between your lips and let it slip into your mouth and possess you?"
"N...no..." Even through the haze of his control, he can see she is hesitant, her strong natural reluctance fighting off against the signals of lust and desire that must have been radiating from her sex.
He smiles, and lifts two fingers to her mouth, and slowly pushes them in the wet orifice, thrusting them in deep before pulling them out and sawing back and forth in a simulacrum of fellatio. Christina moans, and sucks.
"You will prepare me with your mouth, Christina--prepare your Lord's spear so that it can penetrate your sacred slit and consecrate you. Get down on your knees, and worship your Lord like a penitent, like a suppliant, like a wench seeking forgiveness for her sins. Take me in your mouth, Christina, and revere your Lord!"
He gently presses on her head, and she haltingly slides down his body to kneel at his feet, her face only inches from the tip of his hard cock. She looks at it with fascination and apprehension, her mouth open, breathing hard.
He runs his hand through her hair and gently pulls her towards her reward. "Go on," he says, "take it in..."
The tip of his cock makes contact with her lips, and she closes her eyes and shivers. He pushes in, taking his time, enjoying the sensations of her lips closing around his flesh, of her tongue dancing on the surface of his glans, of her cheeks as she sucks in hard.
She gags slightly when he touches the back of her mouth, and he relents. She lets him slide out, and then takes him back in, this time helped by a hand on her head. After a few iterations, he lets her go, and she bobs gently on his cock, sucking him on her own, taking him as deep as she can before releasing him at the edge of discomfort.
For someone that has never sucked a man, she is a natural, her mouth playing his shaft like a well-trained flutist her instrument. Her eyes remain closed as she bobs back and forth, slowly, soft sucking sounds filling the air.
"Christina," he says, "look at your Lord."
She does, looking up at him as she keeps sucking, her big blue eyes full of desire and adoration.
He caresses her cheek. "You truly are beautiful."
Christina blushes, and sucks harder, the slurping sounds from her mouth music to his ears. She is not the best fellatrix he has ever sampled, but she has enthusiasm, and her beauty makes it all the more rewarding. For what man does not secretly crave for a model to lavishly worship his shaft? What God?
"Christina," he adds, after a particularly deep thrust from the blonde makes him shiver, "I will grant you a Boon. From now on, whenever you have a hard shaft in your mouth, you will get arouse--you will get wet--wetter than your deepest dirtiest unmentionable fantasies have ever made you. Every thrust of a shaft in your mouth will ratchet up your arousal, bit by bit, until you crave for sweet orgasmic release."
As soon as he finishes, Christina moans, and her efforts on his cock redouble in ardor, as if she is possessed by an increased hunger--she takes him deeper, repeatedly, and the act sends delightful sensations up his spine every time she forces his cock to bump the back of her throat. She cannot take him all, but he does not mind, not this time. What she is doing is wonderful enough.
He nods approvingly when he sees that while bobbing up and down on his cock she has lifted her dress up her thighs and has sneaked a hand underneath it, undoubtedly to finger herself. He almost tells her to stop and take off her dress so he can witness the spectacle of her dainty hand thrusting a few fingers up her hungry twat as she sucks him off, but the feelings on his cock are simply too good to be interrupted.
For the first time since he started his Ministry, he contemplates releasing his seed in a Vessel's mouth before inseminating her, for the sheer pleasure of it. The way she thrusts herself forward, the sounds of suction escaping her lips, the moans emerging from her throat, the press of her cheeks and her tongue and her whole mouth around his cock is incredible, and he does not want any of it to end.
Christina's hand under her dress is more frantic now, and it becomes clear that she is thrusting fingers in and out of her pussy, the soft squelching sounds merging with those from her blow job in a harmony of lewdness.
No--he needs to adhere to the Plan, the Vision, the Prophecies. He cannot afford to stoop to satisfying some primal desires.
"Christina, stop--"
She does not. She does not hear him, or so he tells himself. Because the alternative is that she resisted his Command, a Blasphemy the consequence of which he does not want to consider.
"Christina, stop at this moment!" He does not want to raise his voice. He grabs her hair and pulls her off his cock.
Her head back, her mouth wide open with strings of saliva connecting her lips to the tip of his shaft, her eyes crazed and unseeing, she looks like an animal--a beautiful, sexy, utterly desirable animal. She keeps thrusting a hand under her dress, hard, and the whimpers that she cannot control suggest that perhaps his Boon earlier was too much, that perhaps her mind is unable to cope with the pleasure he has forced through her system.
"Please... my Lord... Please! I want... I want... my Lord, I want to taste your cum!" It looks like it is a struggle to resist the urge she feels to dive right back onto his cock, and he cannot help a smile.
"You want your Lord's seed, wench?"
"Fuck yes," she says, her eyes finally focusing on him, her free hand rising up to grasp his hard shaft and stroke it lightly. "I want you to splash it all over my face, all over my mouth--I want to drown in your cum, my Lord!"
"You will get my Seed, then. Lie down, lift up your dress, spread your legs. Offer your holy hole to your Lord, so that He may consecrate you with his Rod."
Christina obeys him, lying down on the ground at his feet, not caring about the dirt floor. She pulls her dress up over her thighs, exposing the top of her stockings--along with the garter--and then her sheer panties, which are almost translucent at the crotch so abundant is her arousal.
He points, while stroking his cock. "Take them off."
She does. She then spreads her legs wide, and caresses a beautiful pussy covered with a fine dew of light hair. She moans, as her fingers busily dance up and down her swollen labia.
He stares, still stroking his cock, admiring the beautiful blonde with her long legs spread, ready to welcome him and please him.
"Please," she moans, lifting her pelvis so that her crotch sways closer to him, "please enter me, my Lord. Enter me, and fuck me..." Her voice trails as she thrusts two fingers into her pussy to heart-warming sloshy sounds.
"My thoughts exactly," he mutters as he stretches himself over her and presses the head of his cock against her pussy. She does not wait for him to push in, preferring to thrust her groin upward and impale herself on his descending shaft.
She groans a loud "Oh fuck!" and comes in his arms, shivering with her pleasure. As he slowly fucks in and out, she clings to him, breathing hard in his ear, her legs wrapped around him, the tip of her high heels digging into his calves, her body pressed against his.
"You fill me up so good, my Lord," she whispers in his ear, as she thrusts back against him.
He lifts himself up on his elbows to look at her. Her skin is gleaming, her eyes are half closed. Her mouth is open, her lips wet, her tongue dancing in one corner. Without thinking, he runs a finger over those red lips.
Christina grunts and grips the tip of his finger between her lips and suckles on it before opening her eyes and while keeping them trained on his, sucks that finger deep into her mouth.
"Mmm," she moans, as she gives his finger a blow job, a little smile on her lips, her big innocent eyes watching him.
He fucks her harder.
She seems to enjoy that. She lets go of his finger, grasps him behind the neck and pulls herself up, her nose against his, breathing through her mouth. "Are you going to stuff that big cock of yours in my mouth, my Lord? Are you going to fuck my mouth? I want to swallow you whole, my Lord--I want to drink you all up..." She mashes her lips against his and kisses him hard, bucking underneath his rutting body.
He is taken aback, and almost explodes right then and there. He pulls back, closes his eyes trying to think of something suitably neutral, and when he is calmer, he finally speaks.
"Christina, I will now baptize you into your new Faith. You will accept my Seed deep into your womb, and carry it to term so that you can bring forth a new generation of worshippers for your Lord. Tell me, do you want my Seed?"
"Oh yes! Spill in me, my Lord! Feed me your cum, drown me!"
It is not quite what he has in mind, but the enthusiasm behind the thought pleases him to no end, and once more he almost gives in to his desire to pull out and shove his cock into her mouth and continue introducing her to the joys of oral sex.
But he does not. Duty comes first. Duty always comes first. Duty is the code that keeps the Spirit from flying off into space like a helium balloon. He thrusts into Christina harder, cementing his determination. She moans as she feels him inside her, and urges him on.
He smiles to himself. There is no reason why he cannot derive pleasure if Duty is seen to. After all, even Gods need rewards. He raises himself on his hands, and looks at the bride, her eyes closed, sweat dripping off her brow, her mouth open and panting. "Is this how you want your mouth fucked? Hard and fast?" He punctuates his question with a few hard thrusts.
Christina's eyes fly open, her lips parting wider, the tiniest bit of drool seeping off the corner of her mouth. She looks crazed. She moans loudly before wrapping her nylon-sheathed legs around his waist and clutching him close.
"Fuck yes," she groans before her tongue sneaks out to lick his lips. "Fuck my mouth hard and deep--fuck my mouth like a cunt, my Lord--shove your cock down my throat over and over and over and--Oh! God! Yes! Like that!"
She clutches him tighter, pulling herself off the ground, her legs wrapped around him. His arms are starting to shake from having to support their combined weight. Christina is panting in his ear, little animals sounds coming from her throat. "Fuck me, my Lord! Fuck me!" she repeats, like a mantra.
He pushes her down and redoubles his efforts, his hips driving his cock deeper and deeper into her welcoming pussy. The wet sounds from their coupling testify to the arousal Christina is subject to. When he runs one of his hands down the side of her face, she swivels her head like a panther and grabs his hand and sucks two of his fingers into her mouth and she swallows them repeatedly, gagging loudly, and the sounds from the mouth compete with those from her pussy.
Her eyes are closed. Her hips do a mad dance. The hand grasping his hand holds it in a death grip, while her other hand is on his butt and urges him deeper inside her.
And then she pushes his fingers down her gullet and elicits a gag that threatens to make her retch on the spot, and she stiffens underneath him, and practically explodes with an orgasm that nearly throws him off.
And the feeling of her pussy squeezing his cock in the throes of her passion brings him over the edge, and he lets go--spurting jet after jet of his Seed deep in her womb, while she sucks harder and harder on his fingers as if they are about to provide the same nectar for her to enjoy.
He slumps to the ground next to her, drained. The cool floor is hard against his side, but he does not care.
Christina snuggles up to him, still keeping his hand near her face, gently licking his fingers. Her other hand is softly stroking his cock, which is barely deflated.
When he recovers his breath, he looks at her. He tries to summon enough energy to sound powerful and dominating. "Christina," he says, pushing his voice low.
"Mmm... yes, my Lord?" She licks the palm of his hand, looking for all the world like a cat playing with a mouse.
"You are now a Vessel of your God."
"Mmm... yes, my Lord."
"You and your soon-to-be husband are blessed. He shall be rewarded for offering his bride as a Vessel. Listen to me well, Christina." He raises himself on an elbow.
Christina looks at him, nibbling on one of his fingers.
"From now on, you shall provide your husband-to-be with oral sex whenever he so desires. No matter when he wishes it, or where he wishes it, you shall endeavor to satisfy him to the best of your considerable skills. You will offer to wake him up every morning with a blow job, and you will make it very clear that your mouth is his for the taking. You will, at your convenience, practice your oral skills, seeking to become the most accomplished fellatrix you can be. Your Boon, Christina, will remain your gift. But your oral-driven orgasms when satisfying your husband-to-be with your mouth will be even more pleasurable than any other."
Christina is listening, absorbing, changing upon hearing his words, even as she is sucking on his finger.
"Now show me," he says, lying down on his back. "Show me how you are going to suck your husband's cock--worship your Lord like you would him."
Her grin is wide. "With pleasure, my Lord!"
* * *
(Charleston, West Virginia. Two months ago.)
Elizabeth Bowden strolled through the lobby towards the security guard behind his reception desk.
"Kanawha Insurance," she said with a smile.
The guard nodded without looking up from his bank of security cameras. "Sixth floor. Please sign in."
He only looked when Elizabeth was signing her name, and from the corner of her eyes she saw his double take, and repressed a smile. People--mostly men--had been reacting that way to her as she made her way to Greg's building, which confirmed that she had done well. The security guard at least was trying to remain professional, in contrast to the corner florist who unashamedly gawked at her as if she were a Saturday night stripper whom he had paid good money to ogle.
Not that she was dressed particularly scantily, she reflected with a touch of wonder as she smiled to the guard after picking up the bouquet of flowers she had purchased from the corner florist and heading to the elevator bank. The pale raincoat she wore was perhaps a little bit high on her thighs, and the way she kept it cinched tight at the waist did wonders for her figure. But her shoes were anything special--runners, what anyone with half a sane mind wore to walk around the city. But the white nylons that were visible between the hem of her coat and her shoes caught the eye, and certainly her hair and makeup were flawless, which they had better be because she had spent nearly an hour perfecting them, brushing her long red hair in exactly the way that Greg said he loved, and she knew she looked good. Smashing, in fact.
And she looked good because she felt good. More than good, great! With two months to go before she and Greg would tie the knot, two months before they could move in together without her father getting a stroke, two months before her husband could ravage her and make her a woman. Like a puppy picking up on the excitement of her mistress and happily wagging its tail in anticipation of something good, her pussy tingled in sympathy.
She was alone in the elevator that carried her to the sixth floor, which gave her some time to get ready mentally and rehearse what she wanted to do. She had visited Greg at his office often enough, and sometimes for exactly the reason she was there today--sex--but never in such an elaborate fashion. Never with anything but, say, her own satisfaction in the balance. Today, she was not there for herself, she was there for Greg, and that added a certain pressure, a certain weight, which made her just a touch nervous.
When she thought about it cold, early in the morning upon waking and before leaving the comfort of her bed, she still had trouble coming to terms with what she could only qualify as her good fortune. She was a romantic at heart--had always been--and even as she was growing up, she had had to hide her favorite movies from the boys without whom she used to play and spend most of her time. She had grown up a tomboy with a wild closeted romantic streak. And fifteen years later, she had come full circle and was a wedding planner. While she was clear eyed about the realities of modern marriages--not everyone took it equally seriously, and as long as both parties agreed that this was the case, there was no harm done-- but she held the deep feeling that the institution was special, was worth preserving, that vowing love and support and partnership in front of witnesses and through a ritual had benefits that went beyond economy or companionship. And that's why the push to recognize gay marriages is really a Godsend, she thought, not for the first time, it counters the narrative that permeates everything nowadays.
The elevator dinged for the sixth floor. She grinned to herself thinking about running that argument by her father--he'd have a stroke, albeit a smaller one than if she had moved in with Greg before her wedding. Her father still fumed and exploded when he spoke of young people living together without getting married, and the sheer concept of homosexuality--gay men in particular--was one he hated so much it did not even warrant a rant on his part. Elizabeth wondered the extent to which his time in the army had shaped his views, wondered whether he had witnessed or experienced something that had traumatized him. He rarely spoke of the war. About being in the military, yes, all the time. But the war itself, almost never.
She stepped out of the elevator onto the comparatively busy floor that housed not only the offices of Kanawha Insurance, Greg's employer, but also a small investment bank and a orthopedic practice. Her mother, in the year before her death, the year during which she and Elizabeth had talked endlessly and had grown much closer, had always maintained that her father was a good man, deep down inside, but a wounded one. Wounded beyond any physical damage. Some damage is not visible, she had often repeated.
Elizabeth nodded her head and smiled to a few of Greg's colleagues that she recognized, having met them at several official functions where she had been introduced as his fiancee. She barely noticed the looks they gave her, hungry, lustful, predatory looks, the kind of looks she saw throughout her college years. Her father was still foremost on her mind as she wondered, not for the first time, how he would take her upcoming nuptials. She worried about him--he seemed happy for her, encouraging, even begrudgingly recognizing that Greg was an "upstanding young man" even though he had never served his country.
Giving up his legs for his country in Iraq during the First Gulf War had been tough, but tougher still had been his reintegration into society. In a story line calqued almost shamelessly from the headlines of a Second World War paper, he had fallen in love, not with a nurse, but with the doctor at the rehabilitation center in which he had landed back in the States--and he had been at first surprised, then disbelieving, then reluctantly hopeful upon realizing that his feelings were shared and that his doctor, Elizabeth's mother, shared those feelings despite his damage, despite his nonfunctional lower body, despite his perceived uselessness.
Elizabeth had been three years old at the time. She did not remember her biological father--the man her mother used to call the Bastard. Elizabeth had never met him, had never sought him out. And it did not matter, because Sergeant James Bowden of the 24th Infantry Division filled the role of father as if it was meant for him in the first place.
And he had been wonderful and supportive when her mother--his wife--died eight years later, even though Elizabeth knew full well that that time had been terrible for him, a hell not unlike that of his war years and the loss of his legs. And yet he soldiered on, taking care of her, and she carried in her heart the secret that perhaps, just perhaps, she might have given him a reason to live, a role to play, a home to stoke the fires for. He treated her like she was his own daughter, like she was blood from his blood, grown from his own seed. And for that, for not abandoning her, for giving her a home and giving her his heart, she would forever be thankful.
She shook her head to clear it as she approached the desk of Greg's administrative assistant, which he shared with four other colleagues. The assistant, Meghan, stared at Elizabeth with wide eyes. They had spoken often a functions and parties thrown by Greg's company, and they had gotten along quite well. That the assistant was but a few years younger than Elizabeth helped, and that they came from similar backgrounds helped even more.
"Miss... Miss Bowden," said Meghan. It had become a joke between them, calling her Miss Bowden, although Elizabeth suspected that the young Meghan mostly meant it, as she had always seemed a bit in awe of the redhead. Not that Elizabeth knew why. Shelley's theory, when Elizabeth had mentioned it, after asking if the assistant was pretty--not a beauty, but not unpleasant to look at either, the word mousy fitting, too reserved and unwilling to put herself forward--was that the assistant was indeed awed, awed by Elizabeth's togetherness, beauty, and the fact that she had landed her direct boss, for whom the assistant might bear the slightest crush.
"Hi Meghan. Is Greg in?" Somehow, that Meghan might have a crush on Greg, on her man, endeared the young woman even more to Elizabeth--as if they had something more in common. Elizabeth was not generally prone to jealousy, and she did not get any vibes indicating she might need to feel otherwise towards the reserved administrative assistant.
Meghan nodded. She was still staring at Elizabeth as if she were an apparition, her eyes wide. "Yes... yes, he is. Miss Bowden. He's been back from lunch as of half an hour ago. Do you want me to tell him you're here?"
"I was thinking of dropping in to surprise him, to be completely honest. Is he alone?"
Meghan nodded once again, watching Elizabeth put her large handbag on the desk and pulling out from it a pair of white stiletto pumps.
As Elizabeth slipped off her runners, Meghan seemed fascinated by the shoes, and then appeared to realize that she was staring and blushed and without really looking at Elizabeth asked about the wedding. "You must... you must be excited about the big day... Miss Bowden? Two months to go?"
Elizabeth grinned as she slid her feet into her pumps, immediately gaining four inches. She noted that at least one man in the office was staring at her, exactly what Meghan was avoiding at all cost. Elizabeth felt a bit of a blush coming to her cheeks, recognizing the spike of arousal that she remembered so well form her college days when she felt male eyes on her that cemented the power she held over them--one that she never abused, but enjoyed greatly. She had toned it down after graduation, considering it part of growing up. But perhaps Shelley was right about this--as Shelley was wont to be about most things--that it was her true nature to show off, to feed on sexual energy. She wondered, again not for the first time, whether Greg would approve, and how he would react to learning about that aspect of her personality, if he had not already guessed it.
"Nine weeks," she answered, putting her runners in her bag. She decided not to put on her tiara--she had not been sure, but now that the choice had to be made, it did not feel right. "But who's counting, right?"
She flashed a happy smile to Meghan, who responded with a small smile of her own. "You're so lucky," she said, wistfully, looking as though she wanted to add more.
"Oh, I'm not the one who's lucky today." She gave Meghan a weighty wink. "Can you make sure Greg is not disturbed for the next, oh, let's say, forty-five minutes?"
She did not wait for the now brightly blushing Meghan to answer before strolling to Greg's office door, teasingly imparting the slightest exaggerated sway to her hips for the benefit of the anonymous gawker whose eyes she still felt on her back and on her legs. The thrill that perhaps the older man would masturbate thinking of her, imagining what she wore underneath her coat and what she was going to do entering her fiance's office added to her arousal.
She slipped into Greg's office. Her fiance was at his desk, reading from a folder, a frown on his face, tapping a cheap plastic pen on the surface of the desk in time with some rhythm only he could hear. It took him a moment to register her presence, and only looked up startled when Elizabeth pulled the deadbolt on the door with a finality that would have been frightening if not for the smile that split her face. She did not say a word as she leaned back against the door, her arms loosely crossed before her, her handbag dropped by her side.
"Lizzie?" He looked surprised, confused, and Elizabeth guessed maybe even a bit apprehensive. Which he should be, she thought.
"Hey baby," she said, trying to make her voice throaty. "Is this a bad time?"
He looked down at his files. "No... no... just... an adjustment that's being contested, and..." He looked up, embarrassed. "But that's not interesting. What are you doing here? I've already had lunch, and..." His voice trailed once he took in how she looked. "Wow..." he said, his voice low.
"I'm not here for lunch. I was out shopping this morning with Shelley, and I needed your opinion on something."
"Okay... Right... Sure... Of course. What... what do you need?"
(to be continued)
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