Elena L.

April 1999

I'm in my favorite downtown Seattle coffee and sandwich shop, Sufficient Grounds, settled into a secluded rear cove, stirring a steaming mug of Darjeeling tea and wondering what Dr. Grace and I will chat about today.

It's a springtime Friday, late afternoon.

Dr. Grace Trevelyan-Grey must be off duty tonight, free of on-call responsibilities. When I phoned her yesterday with a "hey, let's get together and catch up" my friend readily replied with a relieved "yes please, Elena, let's."

She was uncharacteristically flustered and sullen. Or maybe I caught her during office hours; never a good time to sideline my pediatrician friend.

Grace and I have been close for about five years, ever since she walked into my upscale home-decor warehouse entitled Chic Salvage, located in the trendy warehouse district some two blocks east of from where I now sit. The business was a gift from my husband, Carter Lincoln of the prominent Lincoln Timber, commemorating our 10th wedding anniversary.

More accurately it was a means of boosting our net worth while simultaneously getting me out of the house every weekday. As always, his romanticism underwhelmed me.

Linc proferred his anniversary gift as he leaned in to plant a peck on my cheek.

"A bored housewife is a mans' greatest financial liability," he informed me, a shade condescendingly.

"Ah thank you, my darling," I cooed warmly accepting his nothing embrace, adding, "go fuck yourself" underneath my breath.

Grace came into the shop that day looking for an antique crystal chandelier and matching sconces to outfit her dining room remodel, all part of the brick colonial mansion refurbishment she and her lawyer husband, Carrick, had undertaken. I led her through my 15,000 square foot warehouse, chock full of reclaimed antique doors, windows, fireplace surrounds, stained glass, clawfoot bathtubs, collumns, corbels, hardware and the like. We settled on just the thing to illuminate the family table, and the resulting effect in the Grey dining room, I must say, is stunning.

I admire Grace tremendously for taking on the project to sensitively refurbish the stately 1920's mansion; a full-time working mother of three adopted children, a wife, physician, and all-around angel, with endless style to-boot. She is what I always wished to be; optimally educated, happily married to an adoring and good-looking husband, a mother, and woman both calmly and immaculately put together at all times.

Except today apparently.

Today is an aberration of Grace's character with her breathless plea for us to sit down for some R and R over coffee. I'm happy to oblige, eager to hear what event has the unflappable Grace Trevelyan-Grey in a tizzy.

The shop's counter is doing a brisk business with suited clientelle bustling in and then, to-go cup in grip, quickly bustling out. A few students have comandeered tables with their books and study materials, the laptop era not yet on the cusp. A nearby table is occupied by a young couple smilingly talking in hushed tones, toying with one another's fingers; coffee clearly not the main attraction of their rendezvous.

I shift in my seat and wait, appraising the updated late 90's decor and smoothing my blonde hair in the mirror across the aisle.

Grace is never late. Something has waylaid her.

No trouble. My university-student assistant, Anthony Sharpe, the Welsh-born muscle of Chic Salvage, is holding the fort. My new-to-market Nokia 9000i cell phone sits beside me. Tony would call if I were needed for consultation or to appear for a significant sale or acquisition.

The gadget's SMS text tone startles me. I look down at the screen.

Anthony: E, what's keeping you?

I reply slowly, new to this text messaging thing: Tony, keep your shirt on. My friend hasn't arrived yet.

Seconds later, a response pops up: I'd rather take my shirt off. And yours. Does Madam wanna fuck?

I gasp, my jaw having dropped, looking around nervously. What Anthony lacks in subtlety, he more than makes up for in power and endurance, both on the warehouse floor and in the loft office/bedroom above it. Bless him. His accent stirs me just thinking about it. I wonder if his bouncy California bimbo girlfriend is similarly affected.

I carefully type my reply: I am ready when you are. In the loft. Closing time.

He responds: Yes ma'am.

I look up to see a suited patron exit the coffee shop and my expected companion enter. Grace Trevelyn-Grey sees me down the length of the shop's shotgun layout, waves and smiles, holds up a finger in a "just a minute" gesture, and orders at the counter.

I squirm in my seat, my easily distracted mind having veered sharply to the hardbody awaiting me on my office Murphy bed. He knows better than to disappoint me, and never does.

I want to move this coffee-talk along.

"Grace, my dear," I purr, standing and taking my friend's outstretched hand as she arrives to my secluded table.

She smiles genuinely and squeezes my hand, "Elena. Always looking so beautiful."

"As are you, my darling. How are you? On the phone you sounded so…. strained. How is the family?"

"Oh, fine I suppose," she sighs and sits down, her smooth brow furrowing. "All in good health, thank heavens. I needed to get away. I'm off this weekend, but Elena, I don't want to go home."

I'm taken aback. "Good heavens. Why?"

Dismay is written all over Grace's lovely face. "Christian." She heaves a deep sigh and shakes her head. "He's driving his father and I mad."

I stare at my friend. "Oh no, not again."

"Yes. I'm at a loss."

"Don't tell me he was fighting at school again."
Grace looks like she might cry.

"He was expelled from Overlake Academy today. Carrick had to pick him up. He's bruised a bit but it's no worse, thank God. His opponents take a real beating though."

"Oh Grace," I disheartedly smirk. "Why this time? Christian has such a short fuse."

"I don't know what to do for him, Elena. We have him seeing a therapist once a week. And we thought by putting him in kickboxing that he would have a release for this…. this aggression of his. I just find myself thankful that he comes away from these fights with his teeth and his nose intact, and without a permanent police record."

From what I've seen of Christian lately, yes, all are miraculous. And being that he is always labeled the instigator, I fear his parents will face a lawsuit eventually. It helps if your dad is a lawyer I suppose.

I ask, "Does he tell you what leads up to these fights? What triggers him?'

Grace gives a sardonic laugh. "That kid is a myriad of secrets. He should work the CIA when he grows up. There's no getting anything out of him."

I nod, thinking of myself at that age. The anger that I carried, at the mean girls, and my parents who couldn't be bothered with my problems. And the teachers who looked the other way.

High school. Domestic terrorism at its best.

We ponder silently for a few minutes, sipping our respective hot drinks.

I think of Christian. He must be fifteen, or soon to be in another few months. The last time I saw him, at the Grey's New Year's Eve party, he was my height, 5 foot 9. Lanky, square shouldered, auburn hair too long over his forehead as if he was trying to hide from the world. His sweet face marred by a bloom of acne. Gray eyes intense and observant, as always.

Christian's demeanor is in sharp contrast to Elliott, the Grey's bubbly class-clown eldest. And to Princess Mia, the effusive, not-a-whit-of-self-doubt little sister holding court daily over her adoring subjects.

Christian has always fascinated me. He's a kid with the weight of the world on his young, spindly shoulders, and at the same time he wears an air of 'mature and capable.' He's one given to rare smiles, even though his braces are now gone, but his smiles light up a room when his humor is caught unawares. Chistian is a boy who can sit down at the piano and play like I've dreamed my entire life I could play. He's a young person who will shake hands firmly like an adult man of the business world, and he's not first to release the hand clasp.

But don't dare try to hug him. And don't touch him.

Christian flinches with even the warmest, most genial touch. It is enough to make the entire room turn and stare. His reaction to any attempted embrace or touch, I've observed, is immediate. And pronounced.

I wonder if this is where his peer difficulties lie. I also wonder what happened in his young life to elicit this reaction.

Christian's mysteries fascinate me. He is no ordinary teenage boy, and I fear for him. There are demons at work behind those gray eyes. Demons gaining strength and size and fury. It will not end well for him I'm afraid. Real intervention is necessary. And soon.

But what kind of intervention? And how? And when?

I tap my red painted fingernails on the bistro table, thinking.

What can I do for this kid? For this family?

Why do I care?

You know why you care, Elena. Because you're bored. You're a rich old man's trophy wife. Childless, useless, not content with sport-fucking a hot young Welshman and exerting the power over him that his stupidly oblivious girlfriend doesn't know he needs. You weren't content with any of the others before him either.

You love that, Elena, don't you? The control. Tying them up, using and abusing, wringing them out, making them beg. Making them worship you.

Yes.

Watching my current muscle-man kneel in supplication, whipping him and pleasing him in turns. Hearing his words of worship and his pleas for mercy, as well as for your pussy.

"Please ma'am, please may I taste you again?"

"Taste me, Anthony. Yeah, like that. No! (snap of the leather paddle on his bare ass) slower. That's a good boy. Spread, suck, yeah… circle with your tongue… use your fingers inside…. ohhh yeah….drink…. Next I'm going to suck you… and if you come without my permission, I will whip the living shit out of you…."

"Yes, ma'am…."

Yeah, I smirk, once again back in the coffee shop.

I do like that….

But there has to be something more to my existence than playing with boy-toys.

Now I'm really squirming.

Grace looks up from her coffee. I'm the first to break our heavy silence.

"Grace, what if Christian came to work for me in the warehouse? Not often, but when he has time. Maybe its work, and paid employment, that will help. Under the table pay of course."

Grace purses her lips, considering.

"He'll have to finish the year with a tutor. It's too late for a new school, so who knows what his schedule will look like. Carrick and I are running out of options for schools in the Seattle area. He's been thrown out of four now. But work may be what he needs, Elena. Sports don't seem to help. Cross country running wears him down a bit, and he seems to enjoy kickboxing, soccer, piano, sailing…" She trails off, shaking her head.

"Well, suggest it to Christian then. He can work with Anthony, moving the heavier items and loading them into the van and helping with deliveries. I even have work he can do at my house. God knows that Linc, as cheap as he is, would rather give a teenager a few bucks than hire professionals to do the heavy lifting."

Grace smirks at me. "Linc pays Anthony's salary at your warehouse, doesn't he? Whether he knows it or not."

"True. But Linc doesn't know or care what I do with the allowance he sends my way. He only knows I'm occupied and out of his hair."

Linc, I laugh inside myself.

As sexual skill goes, I rate my husband a 1 on a graduating scale of 1 to 10. He gets a single point for being able to get it up. Once it's up, his idea of pleasing a woman is to stick it in, move around for a few seconds, come, and beat a hasty retreat out of the room. Same position. Same room. Same frustrating premature ejaculation bullshit, every time. I've counted fourteen seconds as his record.

And you ask why I sport-fuck the muscle-man hired help? Please.

Grace interrupts by bitter reverie.

"Christian has a phone, Elena. Maybe you could call him and offer a visit to your store."

I laugh. "Of course he has a phone. Always on the front line of telecommunications, isn't he, Grace?"

"Yes, he talked us into it. A Nokia 9110 Communicator. Pricey."

"Do doubt."

"Well, he has free time now to help pay for his expensive gadgets," she disparingly says with an eye-roll. "Here, put his number into your phone…"

I make a show of adding young Christian's info to my phone's contacts, but I already have it. I drove him home from indoor soccer practice one rainy winter's night recently when Elliott couldn't (or wouldn't) do it, and kept his number. Again, that kid fascinates me but I'm not sure why.

Upon bringing him home that night, I recall him lingering in my passenger seat, the wipers going intermittently, clearing sleet from the windshield. He remained still and quiet, then looked up at me directly. Expectantly.

After a minute he opened the car door and said, "Thanks, Mrs. Lincoln" and was gone.

Those intense gray eyes. And he has the most beautiful lips. Holy shit.

I try to forget, but can't.

"OK, Grace, I'll give him a call this weekend," I offer brightly and benignly. "He can come meet Anthony and have a look around the store."

"Oh, Elena," Grace sighs gratefully. "You are such a good friend."

"For you, my dear, anything." I pat her hand reassuringly.

After another ten minutes of general news and pleasantries, we part ways.

I set off for the walk back to the warehouse, quivering deep within while plotting the upcoming scene with the delicious viand awaiting me on the loft/office bed.

I'll tether him. Tony's muscular arms secured above his head, blindfolded, his musky male scent rising and intoxicating me, driving me to subjugate, own and break him. And I'll ride him, deep, lost in the recollection of someone else, someone whose unforgettable gray eyes haunt me and whose psyche within I must conquer.

"Flex your hips, Tony. Yeahhhh… good boy."

Hearing his groans and whimpers.

In response, I grind down harder and soak him.

"Don't you dare come, Christian." Oh, um, I mean… "Tony."

Muscle man doesn't seem to notice my slip.

And finally I will send my awestruck boy-toy home to his cheerleader confection, wrung out, and without a drop of manhood vitality remaining.

"Thank me," I direct Tony afterward as he kneels at my feet, naked and with his angry-red, freshly fucked ass in the air, knees parted.

"Ma'am," he breathes, trembling, and otherwise speechless.

Tonight I was merciless. Lost in fantasy, and angry with Anthony for not being…. well, for not being the someone I covet most and fully intend to claim eventually. But I have rules, with an age limit amongst them, the legal definition of 'adult' be damned.

"Look at me," I quietly demand.

Anthony's young, manly face tips up, tears wet on his cheeks, overcome with the intensity of our scene.

I raise my eyebrows expectantly.

"Thank you. Ma'am. Thank you."

"For what?"

"For…for…for being my goddess. For…for making me worship you."

I nod over him, satisfied, my cane gently carressing the fresh welts over his luscious asscheeks and the deep crevice of his gluteal cleft, not caring what his cheerleader twit at home may think of the stripes and welts I left.

"Good boy. Now stand."

He does, immediately but tremulously, and looks down into my eyes.

Tony is sweet, good-looking, and he's a pleaser. He's a good submissive. I drive him ruthlessly, and he always strives to give me his everything. When I finally let him come tonight, he pleased me by driving deep into my throat and realeasing himself loudly, impressively, copiously; every muscle in his taut body quivering with carnal joy, and sobbing his adoration for me. He did well.

I reach up and pat Anthony's tear stained cheek, considering sponge bathing his sweaty, sticky body with warm water and jasmine soap before he goes. But it pleases me, too, for him to return home awash in our evidence.

"Get the fuck out of here," I whisper, then turn my back, fold my arms, and wait until Anthony has hastily dressed and left the warehouse.

Then I straighten up the office/loft, smoothing the bed's satin coverlet and making a mental note to replace it this weekend with a freshly laundered one. I raise the hinged mattress into the murphy bed cabinet, then pick up and wash the toys used tonight, the stap-on harness, the jar of scented lube, blindfold, tethers, the choker chain, my leather 1/4 cup bustier and thong, and store everything neatly in the locking file cabinet below my desk.

There. All ready in case hubby dearest were to come poking around, which of course he won't because he would have to care before he would enquire.

I get dressed and brush my shiny blonde hair, contemplating adding a shower to the half bath beside my office.

Downstairs in the warehouse, I lock up.

Yes, there's plenty for young Master Grey to do in here. Linc can pay his salary too.

Then I drive the Lexus home to where my solitary bed in a gilded cage awaits, planning along the way the phone call I want to make to my teen apprentice candidate this weekend.

Seeds must be planted early for optimal results to be reaped.

Patience, Elena….

Damn, they're getting younger and younger.

In time, I intend to reap the shit out of that boy.