from the Novel, Broken Open
From the Desk
of Andrea Thane
Ms. Lara Leeds:
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.
thought you were Sam’s first?
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.
landing a big account, Sam says. Couldn’t have done it without
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.
with me, Sam Thane says. A single lock of his close-cropped, black
hair falls into a half-curl on his forehead.
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?
He offers, and that settles it.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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?
a bit wider, my darling, open up your legs.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
ask the first time.
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.
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.
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.
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?
finger. Touch yourself. I want to see you do it.
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?
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 . . .
Tuesday evening, June 1, I’ll be at Vincent’s Café.
Corner of 23rd and Third, 6 PM. Will you come?
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