A Woman in Control - My good organizer II

My good organizer II

Jack tried again. I knew he would. And one must keep in mind his entreaties came before the hijinks began with G. Douglas and well before the development of my bull stud sales team. So though I kept my aura of superiority, that of haughty bitch, I was also in need of male companionship. But in that respect Jack proved inadequate except for certain non carnal attributes.

I learned Jack could cook!

He once again suggested coffee. And I, in the role of bitch, sent him out to retrieve... six blocks to the Starbucks, the institutional office stuff deemed below my standards.

‘Go fetch, boy,’ thoughts not words.

Returning winded (did he jog?) I made him stand while I comfortably sat at my desk, trying not to giggle when he expressed thanks in letting him be ‘of service’. Such gallant dribble.

Yes, I had him... and he wanted to be had. So easy.

There can be comfort in ownership, I learned in one of my advanced classes in aberrant behavior. So many examples, the loyalty of pets, slaves declining ultimate freedom, the Stockholm syndrome. And Jack’s soft eyes cried out for guidance.

At what level did he desire ownership?

When my intercom buzzed, G. Douglas in need of a paperclip no doubt, I shooed him away, without thanks, my attitude one of expectation.

‘Why should you not fetch and be of service?’

So it was Jack who first fell into my lair, not G. Douglas. The boss simply became the catalyst for the ultimate attainment of power.

Jack and I dated. I maintained my demeanor of bitch. Nothing more than dinner. I mean nothing. On the second date he divulged his cooking skills... a hobby but well honed. And as an engineer, precision ingrained, one could imagine a very exacting and pragmatic approach in the kitchen. He invited me to his place, on a Saturday night, spending the time to prepare something sumptuous all afternoon.

“I want to serve you a great meal.”

I agreed.

“No sex, Jack. Don’t even think about it,” I forewarned.

‘At least not how you would hope to envision it,’ I was tempted to add but did not want to scare aware the fish before even setting the hook.

I let him kiss my hand, declining to share a cab with him. Not too close too fast.

During the week he was given to visit me in the executive suite, a ‘just happen to be passing’ by type of thing. I finally put a stop to it, asserting myself, the mystical powers of the CEO’s administrative assistant... filing clerk, maker of coffee, sharpener of pencils... yet with perceived influence that really wasn’t there... at the time.

“Jack, you are to stay in your office in the analysis department unless summoned,” my tone as exacting as my 22 year old voice could assimilate.

Yet, I was effective. He later called and asked to go to the men’s room. I had to stifle quite the laugh, suggesting that he must first wait fifteen minutes. 

Well, most would take it as humor, anyone but Jack sarcastically responding to my overbearing instructions. But something told me to check and after fifteen minutes I happened near the analysis department, veiling my presence, but amused to see Jack finally step from his office and head for the men’s room. Fifteen minutes on the dot!

Wow, aberrant behavior indeed. The boy is crying out in need... and I decided it shall be addressed.

Saturday. I arrive at Jack’s apartment, in my hand a... well term it a surprise bag. Engineers do well, his upper east side building somewhat swank... doorman... well accoutered lobby. Permission to ascend to Jack’s nineteenth floor abode is immediate. He greets me at the door wearing an apron. As disclosed he has spent the afternoon cooking, but is the apron functional or is Jack sending a message?

When I step into his well furnished digs, there come more clues. The livingroom, open to a cute dining area, is not only spotless it is tastefully decorated... too tastefully. It’s not guy stuff... not the taste of a young bachelor. Yet it’s not feminine either... it’s just... precise... in spacing... in coloring... in its functionality.

Than another clue as Jack excuses himself to momentarily rush to the kitchen. He wears no shoes and his apron! Now that’s feminine! Frilly, it is only lacking the color pink to make it completely inappropriate to be donned by a male.

Another message?

I stow my bag. ‘Saks Fifth Avenue’ with sturdy handles, innocuously suggesting I have shopped.  Jack returns. Having checked on some portion of the meal, he carries a tray. A bottle of Champagne, two filled glasses.

“Thank you, Jack, very thoughtful. But you probably should not be drinking near all that hot food and equipment,” taking both glasses from the tray.

I have spent the morning and a good part of the afternoon reading some old texts. Jack is a submissive male. Deep within he relishes the female authority figure. There is a gap in his life which he yearns to have filled.

Did he find me or I find him?

“Yes, ma’am, I suppose it can be hazardous,” not an iota of regret as I put aside his glass and sip from mine.

Am I the woman to fill the gap?

“Very nice apartment, Jack. Nicely decorated,” small talk as he must stand before me, watching me imbibe.

Without drink, his hands are unoccupied and such fosters awkwardness... intentional on my part. For now I am the person who can bring comfort... and I don’t. I have intentionally worn heels, not high but nicely augmenting our height differential. And to think Jack has accommodated by forsaking shoes...

For some reason he dares not move and cannot find words. So we just look at each other, me gazing downward at his face, such delightful psychological advantage. Though there is silence, I believe messages are exchanged. Another sip and I take mercy.

“You’ll serve me there? In the dining area?” hinting at the evening protocol.

“Ah, yes, Miss Montrove,” responding as I stroll the few steps to the set table.

“Here you may call me Miss Desiree. Less formal don’t you think?”

He nods, knowing that it will continue to be Miss Montrove at Olivier Flavors and Fragrances.

“There are two settings. I am to expect a guest?”

I hear a gulp. Poor Jack has cooked for two. But not to go to waste. He can heat his portion later... much later.