Excerpt from the Novel, Broken Open

by Robin Reinach

From the Desk of Andrea Thane

May 26, 2013

To Ms. Lara Leeds:

You don’t know me, but you’ll recognize the name on my letterhead. Surprised? Ha! I guess you’ve grown accustomed to unusual behavior by now. And of course, so have I.

Unless you thought you were Sam’s first?

He might have liked giving you that impression. I can see my husband now, approaching your office cubicle, lanky and long-legged in his business suit, silk tie knotted at his throat. He places a large hand on your desktop and leans forward, blue eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed, flying high on his drug of choice: adrenalin.

Nothing beats landing a big account, Sam says. Couldn’t have done it without you.

Waiting for your smile, Sam’s eyes seem serene, the color of a cloudless sky. His jaw is stubbled; it’s after five when the beard he combats regains lost territory, but you probably think his shadowed jaw is sexy. Those fine prickly hairs on Sam’s urban-pale skin offset his pin-striped suit; the burgeoning beard jazzes up his face, adds a bad boy patina.

So, Lara Leeds, you can’t help but smile as your boss—your handsome, bad boy boss—leans close to compliment your work. Then, as your lips curve, the boss’s own well-formed mouth breaks into a conspiratorial grin. A tiny warmth flares in your chest, maybe a warning tingle too.

Celebrate with me, Sam Thane says. A single lock of his close-cropped, black hair falls into a half-curl on his forehead.

You stiffen in your swivel chair, but he urges, Come on. His claret grin goes crooked. I’m heading for Jack’s Bar. He gestures in that general direction. Don’t you deserve to celebrate too?

And you do deserve something, you find yourself thinking. Aren’t the graphs you prepared for Sam Thane’s latest presentation virtual works of art? Haven’t you spent tedious hours at your computer screen inputting data for Thane PR’s extensive comparison charts? Don’t you deserve some of the boss’s energy, some of that easy effervescence bubbling over your desk?

Champagne? He offers, and that settles it.

And, Lara, champagne is all you share that first time, champagne and a touch or two. Yes, Sam’s big hands feel warm on your shoulders when he helps with your coat. And straightening your collar there’s a second, slower touch.

Now, you’re not stupid, my little friend. You notice the boss’s hand hovering near your jaw; you feel the backs of his fingers graze your chin. But you don’t move away. Not while Sam’s cerulean eyes hold yours, not while he murmurs—as though you’re not meant to hear, as though he can’t stop the words from flowing—I’ve never felt so drawn. Then his sky eyes widen, running over your face, as if you’re a miracle, as if he’s transported by awe.

Later, Lara, you may wonder about that gaze, those words—what they promise, if anything. But while Sam talks, you are filled with light; I know. His eyes intoxicate; his touch is tender as a prayer. The full force of his attention is an addictive drug, a religion that delivers salvation in the now. Over the next few weeks your stolen hours together grow sacred, set apart from ordinary time. At work, your boring routines are infused with desire. Secrets swell your chest; deep down inside you feel special.

Between visits to Sam’s clandestine apartment, you cherish that special sense. Oh, you thought I didn’t know about the lavish lair on 40th Street and Second? The boss’s custom-designed, fully-equipped, one bedroom hideaway—conveniently located near your midtown office—has been up and running for years. Lara, you’re not the first woman (secretary, assistant, junior account executive) to walk across the plush bedroom carpet, letting the finest charcoal gray wool caress the soles of your bare feet.

No, Ms. L.L. (does anyone call you Lala?), you’re not the first to lie beside Sam on his fabulous possum fur bedcover or take a soaking bubble bath in his big, black circular tub. I taught him about Occitane; do you like it? A superior product, Occitane makes the water foam with bubbles that don’t dissolve but last, so Sam can mold the glistening white froth into snowballs. The first wet fluff gets smoothed over your shoulders; perhaps he kisses your neck. Next, he tongues each of your nipples, gives one a gentle bite.

Does Sam ask you to extend one leg out of the water, draping your knee over the black marble, and letting your calf hang outside the tub? Does he form a fragrant, white, light-as-air mound and froth your dangling foot? I can see him tickling your instep, spreading foam up the back of your calf and into the crease behind your knee. Next his long fingers slide down your thigh, sloping into the tub. His hand dips below the waterline, seeks your most vulnerable, open flesh, finds your hidden layers, blooming and submerged.

Has he shaved you yet, Lara? Sam loves the little girl look, the innocent pubis, smooth and bare. Do you find the exposure thrilling? Or do you sometimes wonder if you’ve become too vulnerable—your grown woman’s sex lips stripped defenseless, rendering the sensitive, salmon-pink tissue more accessible to Sam’s strong tongue, his dancing fingers, his thick purple cock? I’m certain Sam’s shaved you himself by now; he likes to take control. I can see you sitting on the circumference of his black marble tub, sipping the Cristal he orders by the case.

He spreads your thighs; light jazz plays in the bathroom. It takes trust to let a man approach your nether parts with a straight razor, doesn’t it, Lara Leeds? His single blade flicks open like a switch blade, but a little risk is part of the fun, and the Cristal relaxes you, right?

There, just a bit wider, my darling, open up your legs.

You already know Sam’s touch is gentle, his fingers nimble and firm. On his fingertips comes a tiny puff of foam—shaving cream. How tenderly he paints it on your pussy.

I know what I’m doing, he promises, before scraping your skin with the blade.

And he does know what he’s doing; doesn’t he? Sam’s tone is persuasive, and his fingers are talented so you spread wide to let him get close, straight blade in hand. You obey instructions, shift positions so he doesn’t nick your sensitive skin but sheers your pussy bald. Then, spreading a plush black towel on the dry tub floor, Sam directs you onto your knees.

Bend over; he gestures your face forward, forehead to the towel. Lift; his hand guides your buttocks up. Spread; he shows you how to pull your cheeks apart, baring the fine fuzzy hairs in the crease. Then, kissing your tailbone, palming the rounds of your butt cheeks, he waits a long moment before raising the straight razor to shave every hair from slit to anus.

Later, when your pubis itches, the discomfort reminds you of Sam, making the itch poignant, a souvenir of your time together. It’s comforting to have tangible proof Sam Thane cares about you. Too often your boss is busy, hurrying past your desk with a wave and a wink instead of inviting you to his apartment.

Doesn’t it drive you crazy that he keeps no routine? It’s clever though, you must admit. No way to get complacent. Each time Sam invites you, it’s a gift; there’s no taking him for granted. But ever wonder, Ms. L.L., why the boss is playing with you? You’re not the most poised or striking, not the obvious pick of the lot. Yes, I’ve passed your office cubicle; even though you are new at Thane PR, I’ve seen your face, and learned many useful things. For example, you have long black hair. Sam must love to brush it.

Lara, when my husband brushes your fine, straight hair, do you ever think of me? I hope you don’t pity me, my little friend. Sam’s taken his brush to better locks than yours, to gold and auburn tresses. He always grooms his women, smooths lotion onto their flanks, combs through their manes. He hand-feeds you strawberries dipped in chocolate, doesn’t he? Along with tangy seedless grapes. Cubes of cheddar cheese he pops into your mouth, and off his fingers, your tongue licks organic peanut butter from the health food store.

Sam Thane has you in training; I can see it now. He makes you lie down on the possum fur bedspread, takes off all your clothes. Then, standing up, looking down, loosening his tie—he’s still in his business suit—he says, Touch yourself.

What? you ask the first time.

Touch yourself.

Poor Lara, you’re flustered now. Did you know that turns Sam on? He likes that you’re awkward, insecure, easily controlled. Yes, you are your boss’s type: self conscious and young, unaware of your strengths, malleable and eager.

Masturbate. His tone is hard. And although you’re naked—lying on a married man’s fur bedspread in his clandestine apartment—the word comes as a shock. Do it, a hiss from the handsome mouth that’s tongued every inch of your skin.

Reluctantly, you bring your hand to where your sex is naked as a five-year-old’s. You slither a finger near your slit and let your eyes slip shut.

Open your eyes. Sam’s voice is raw. Look at me.

Do you say I can’t, but open anyway? Do my husband’s sky blue orbs pierce your chest, pin you to the bed?

Move your finger. Touch yourself. I want to see you do it.

Eventually, under Sam’s relentless gaze, you comply. Eyes open, pubis stripped, finger circling your clit, you let him stand over you, fully clothed, watching. And when you finally surrender, you discover you love the exposure. You love the terror of being seen and the unconditional acceptance of the seer. You love his commands because they relieve your timid soul’s fear of failure. Follow Sam’s orders, and you will always be right. You will be groomed and fed, adored and petted. Don’t you love the attention?

And doesn’t it hurt when that attention withdraws, when Sam’s sparkling eyes move off? When your boss leaves town for business or pleasure, when he doesn’t call over the weekend, when you find yourself wondering about me . . .

Lara, this Tuesday evening, June 1, I’ll be at Vincent’s Café. Corner of 23rd and Third, 6 PM. Will you come?

Andrea Thane


Robin Reinach writes erotica, memoir, and mainstream fiction. Her work appears regularly in literary magazines, and she has a pair of erotic novellas in the works. Robin lives in the New York area.

Broken Open © 2014 by Robin Reinach






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