The story of a widow of unfailing Christian faith who discovers her submissive sexuality with an honest and blunt man who questions his faith in God until he met her.
Red Ribbons and Faith
A brief history; I grew up an Army brat, moving from place to place, and often lived in crappy government housing or cramped apartments. Moving from place to place was hard for making friends. I did excel in school, though. When I graduated high school, I left to be on my own clear across the country to the East Coast with a full scholarship.
I was an emancipated seventeen, soon to be eighteen in two days, attending college as an English Major and working part-time as a waitress in an upscale three-star restaurant to have spending money. I adored my adopted community, seasons change, and the proximity to Lake Ontario, Lake Erie, the Finger Lakes, and Niagara Falls. And I planned to live here after I graduated and put down roots.
I married a man who was fifteen years my senior. I met him at the Albright Knox Art Museum during the Picasso Exhibit. I always found young men my age to be shallow or immature. John was worldly and sophisticated, a Professor of Literature at a prestigious private university, not the State School University I attended.
After we married, John oversaw our finances. I was comfortable with this arrangement because I had a generous monthly allowance, and I drove a new leased luxury sedan every three years.
I enjoyed being the hostess, entertaining at our home with my friends from church or his colleges and their wives. I had financial stability and a house of my own, and that is important. My house and marriage were my earthly sanctuaries.
Life was good, so I volunteered to divide my time for charity and help at my Church. Eventually, I was a Board Member of a respected charitable organization working closely with a Children's Cancer Hospital-make a wish foundation.
John was an avid golfer and not good at it. He didn't walk the course but instead drove around in a golf cart. Eventually, he watched golf tournaments on television at his private Country club with his buddies over drinks as he got closer to retiring.
I saw less and less of him, as they say-no marriage is perfect.
I was a virgin when I married. Our sex life was tepid at best on the first night and never got better, but I had nothing to compare then. No oral sex, it disgusted him; giving or receiving—no imaginative foreplay-before, or cuddling after.
In our last five years, sexual intimacy was barely existent, if you could call it that.
We attended Church together and church functions; he went through the motions, tolerating it for appearance's sake, and we slept in separate bedrooms.
As a staunch Christian woman embracing marriage as a sacrament, I had no option other than to pleasure myself in a hot bath with scented candles or relaxing in my bed under luxurious hi-thread count linen sheets with my sexual fantasies and imaginary lovers.
Sadly, my husband, John, died soon after he retired. However, throughout our marriage, he assured me of my financial security should he pass first.
I discovered during probate my husband, John, lied. He forged my signature to allow him to receive his full retirement; instead of taking less, seventy-five percent for his pension to go to me after he died. He had a secret Post Office Box. He took out a second mortgage, again forging my signature. I also discovered our once substantial stock portfolios and mutual funds were depleted and minimal. At some point, John decided he was more intelligent than our fiduciary, fired him, and then made reckless financial decisions.
At first, I couldn't believe what was happening to me and how he lied and betrayed me. I was devastated when my home went up for public auction due to unpaid taxes that I couldn't afford to pay. I was ashamed and scandalized and resigned in shame from the board of directors.
I cried on and off for weeks; I prayed, and then I was numb as reality set in. I was able to get a waitress job and liquidated my remaining mutual funds/stocks. I took most of my jewelry to Mr. Goldberg to sell on consignment in his small jewelry store, including my diamond engagement and wedding band. I had no use for the ornate jewelry box, and I brought that there too.
The next day, shortly before my shift began at the restaurant, and when I went to put it on, I realized I made a terrible mistake; I was sure I left it on my dresser. Only God knows how it got in my jewelry box; it was a gift from my mother and father, and the rest of those expensive gold and diamond bobbles and bling my husband bought meant nothing to me. I didn’t want to upset her, and she was getting forgetful, the poor dear, so I never told my mother it was gone.
When I telephoned Mr. Goldberg, it was too late; his clerk sold it immediately for cash. He felt terrible and, after, refused to take the fifteen percent consignment after everything sold. Perhaps the loss was part of God's divine plan for me; I said a short prayer for its return and then tackled my next problem.
I had the name and address of the man who purchased my home for taxes and satisfied the lien from the bank. So I made an appointment to meet with him several months after the tax auction with a looming deadline.
I spent a week mentally preparing for the meeting. I hoped Mr. Cain would allow me more time to stay there. I hoped he would possibly let me rent it from him. Again, I prayed for a miracle.
I hoped to persuade Mr. Cain and leave a good impression, and I succeeded. It was hot that day with high humidity, so I put my hair up in a simple, classic bun, pretty but modest. I wore my red floral print summer dress with short ruffle sleeves. It was a cross v-neck- button front with a high waistband and a low ruffle hemline well below my knees.
As luck wasn't mine, ASSETS COMPLIANCE RECOVERY, INC sent a flatbed to seize my leased Mercedes before meeting with Mr. Cain. So I called UBER to drive me there that Friday morning in August.
His home is a Federalist-style red brick house with a slate roof surrounded by mature, stately red maple and oak trees. I hesitated before ringing the doorbell. What if he wouldn't listen or laugh at me? Was I wasting my time?
I rang the doorbell, said a small prayer, and Mr. Cain let me in soon after. The temperature in the house was cool and pleasant after being outside in the oppressive heat. There was soft Jazz music playing in the background.
He had on tan chinos and a white button-down long sleeve shirt. "You are punctual, Mrs. Foster, excellent. I'm Lucas Cain," he said, taking my arm and leading me into his kitchen. The room's centerpiece was a massive antique solid maple trestle table with a scratched and stained well-worn top. There were several newspapers, including The Wall Street Journal, and a mug of coffee. One of the pages folded to the partially completed crossword puzzle. I also noticed he was using a sterling silver Montblanc pen fountain pen rather than a pencil. I saw his printing was neat and precise.
"Please have a seat, Mrs. Foster," he offered pleasantly, pulling out a chair for me, and I sat down. Let's get down to business," he said bluntly, "I legally purchased your property for unpaid taxes after I settled with your bank?" "Yes, that is correct," I agreed. "You have less than a week to vacate the premises per court order, or the Sheriff will forcibly remove you," he stated. "Yes," I answered, "Good, we can agree on that as well. Would you like a cup of coffee?"
"Yes, please," I answered, "with one sugar and a splash of cream," thinking everything was going well so far. Mr. Cain got up and made us a fresh pot. As he moved about his kitchen, I noticed his agile and fluid movements, much like a mountain lion with long corded compact spring steel muscles. At six feet three inches tall, and I'd estimate, one-hundred seventy pounds of trim and solid manliness. I wondered how old he was.
Mr. Cain brought me a mug of coffee, along with a small plate of “Biscotti Regina” Italian sesame seed cookies,” Gina’s favorite and mine,” he said and sat down. "You are an attractive woman, Mrs. Foster; however, I'm curious. Tell me exactly why you are here?" he then studied me with his piercing green eyes. "I don't know where to start, Mr. Cain. Being here is very difficult for me."
"I understand, Mrs. Foster. I did some checking," he advised me, taking a sip of coffee, "I have useful people on my payroll. You're a fine and upstanding church-going woman. But, regrettably, your commendable charitable work and waitress job barely pay the bills or allow you to keep the house, let alone afford the security deposit, first months rent, last months rent, and so on.”
"Are you a Christian, Mr. Cain?" "Baptised one, yes, and now I'm a doubting agnostic, even Jesus's disciples had their doubts about faith," He admitted. "I can't prove or disprove the existence of God, although I'm open to the possibility if I could see a sign or small miracle. Nonetheless, I may have a solution to your problems."
"What kind of solution?" I asked, encouraged by this turn of events, as he boldly studied me with his intense green eyes, making me self-conscious.
"I purchased the property to sell for a substantial profit for a price you can't afford given your circumstances. I buy and sell property; restore and flip houses.
I was leaning for sale until you contacted me. If you agree to my proposal, I'll waive the security deposit, and other, you may live there rent-free with certain non-negotiable conditions."
"That's very generous, but I still don't understand, Mr. Cain. What kind of
conditions?" He raised the stakes with an offer that was impossible to ignore. I was desperate to stay in my home; Mr. Cain offered one on a silver platter, and that was not all.
"I will add you to my payroll as my Secretary. It will be legal and above board, including W-2's and all applicable withholdings. You'll have medical insurance. You will be salaried at $3000.00 a month. You will be my girl Friday in every sense of the meaning and be available as needed."
"What do you mean by available as needed," I asked, trying to keep my composure as wild thoughts and possible scenarios raced through my mind.
"Don't be obtuse or cute with me; it's a fair offer, and you were, after all, married for twenty years?" I felt my face flush and turn warm at the implication. "You also concluded a respectful period of mourning."
"But, I didn't expect; I mean, I'm not sure I'm ready to…." I didn't finish my sentence, taken aback and unsure what to say.
Mr. Cain stood up and removed a bundle of twenty-dollar bills secured with a paper currency band under the Wall Street Journal. "This is one thousand cash." You may have it now, and we part ways; consider it a goodwill gesture to defray your moving expenses, or you can finish this job interview to find out if you're ready to be available as needed. In both instances, you may have the money." I didn't answer and looked into my mug as if my coffee contained the answer.
"Let's find out if you're ready, Mrs. Foster." I swallowed and nodded my head. Listen carefully, remove your sandals, and then stand up and face me." He commanded in a quiet tone that demanded prompt obedience, and when I did, "Excellent," he praised.
"Take the hairpins out of your bun, and leave it in a ponytail." When I put the hairpins on the table, Mr. Cain took my ponytail in his hand to feel its weight and the silky thickness of it, something I always enjoy doing, including when I pleasure myself.
My light honey blond hair is thick and full. It is blunt cut straight across the bottom and falls to my waist. I have no bangs or layers.
"Take it down entirely, Mrs. Foster, and shake your head," he ordered; I shook my head, letting my luxurious tresses flow over my back and shoulders, some covering my breasts. "Do you want to leave?" he asked, "The money will still be yours, and the house sold," and I shook my head for no.
He reached forward and pushed my hair back away from my breasts and over my shoulders. "How old are you, Mrs. Foster?" "Forty," I answered truthfully, guessing he already knew.
Mr. Cain got behind me and finger-combed my hair. I felt his calluses when he lightly touched my cheeks and the side of my neck to gather it into a ponytail.
"What are your measurements?" He asked, continuing to play with my long hair, which I considered my best feature, and personal vanity.
"I'm five-foot-six inches tall, and I weigh one-hundred ten," I answered. Mr. Cain put his hands on my shoulders and gently turned me to face him. He slid his hands to my waist and down to my hips, holding me in place while looking into my eyes, "I estimate your figure is a pleasing twenty-six bust, twenty-six waist, and thirty-six hips."
I am not bragging, but I have a nice figure; my power walking and aerobic exercises help me maintain, and his guess was on the mark. I nodded in agreement and closed my eyes, wishing the interview was over.
"Open your eyes and look at me," he demanded, in his quiet and somewhat menacing manner, "Good, you have beautiful blue eyes: take your dress off and do it slowly." He took a few steps back, folded his arms across his chest, and leaned against the table. Mr. Cain's eyes were stern and resolute. I turned my back to him and started to unbutton my front to open my dress.
"Don't turn away from me," he admonished fiercely. I turned to face him, and I was a bit intimidated but determined to see this through, and I continued unbuttoning my dress to reveal my favorite red lace silk bra and matching panties. Because of the hot weather, I was not wearing pantyhose.
Revealing," he commented, "I approve, now lean forward and shake your head, so your hair partially covers your face," I did, and he remarked, "You look tantalizing, Mrs. Foster, take your dress off and drop it on the floor. "Excellent, Mrs. Foster; I like what I see."
He then grasped both of my wrists and looked into my eyes. Next, he raised my arms above my head and told me to hold them in that position, "Keep looking into my eyes, Mrs. Foster."
He unclasped the front hooks of my bra and then fondled my breasts, paying particular attention to my sensitive nipples, getting them hard and erect in my arousal. I couldn't believe what was happening to me, "Do you want to part ways, Mrs. Foster?" and I shook my head for no.
My arms were getting tired, I started to lower them, and he noticed. "Don't drop your hands to your side. Instead, put them behind your head and lift your hair to expose your neck to me," "Excellent," he praised, placing his strong arms around my waist, and he put his face next to mine. I could smell his cologne, "You're alluring and sexy, pretty Lady."
Holding me in place, Mr. Cain then placed one of his large calloused hands over my mound. One finger slid smoothly down my vaginal slit, and he pressed firmly against my clitoris through the fabric.
I squirmed and tried to move away, but he effortlessly held me with one arm. "Your body betrays you, don't fight it, surrender to me. I can smell the musky and sweet juices of your arousal. Don't lie to yourself; you want this, Mrs. Foster?"
He then stepped back and said, "You are a delicious delight to my eyes and senses. Your creamy skin is flawless and not marred or defaced with tattoos or piercings, including your ears. You are almost there. Use your imagination; what am I thinking?"
My bra was falling off my arms, so I took it off and dropped it on my dress. Then, bending forward, I slowly slid my panties to my ankles, my hair falling forward, covering my face.
Standing, I tossed my panties away with a flourish. I slightly arched my back and pushed my breasts forward; I turned my head and shoulders from side to side, my hair partially covering my face and teasing my breasts. I looked into his eyes, pursed my lips as if blowing a kiss.
I was posing lasciviously for him, but my thoughts were conflicted and unsure. I fantasized about being ravished by strong and handsome, dominating men like him, but that was safe and secure, alone in my home.
I was surprised to discover that my labia lips, the flower of my womanhood, were glistening with moisture. I was naked, exposed to this man's pleasure, sexually aroused, and I was embarrassed by it. How was this possible?
Lucas Cain is an alpha male, forceful, domineering, unyielding, and uncompromising. He was brutally honest with me. I thought about the difference between him and my vanilla, timid pacifist husband, who shied from confrontation. He often would take the easy way out and capitulate. But, unfortunately, he was also a liar; how I despise a liar. Proverbs 12:19-"Truthful lips endure forever, but a lying tongue is but for a moment."
"Do you accept my proposal, Mrs. Foster?" "I nodded, yes, dropping my hands, and then I covered my breasts and my flower with my hands and arms.
"You don't have permission to cover yourself. Put your hands to your sides." He cradled my face in his callused hands while looking into my eye. "Nodding is not a definitive answer," and he lightly kissed my lips. "I accept," I whispered, and he kissed my lips again.
"Your lips are luscious, Mrs. Foster, like a fine vintage port' sweet and complex," He put two fingers on my throat, pressing lightly and traced down between my breasts and down my stomach to caress my flower, parting the petals and wetting his finger with the sweet juices of my arousal. I didn't try to move away; he then tasted his fingers.
He put his face close to mine and whispered in my ear, "The nectar of your flower is delectable. I want it shaved and available for my lips and tongue.
Your long hair will always be up in a bun or French twist. You will not leave the house with your hair down and loose, not even in a ponytail unless you are with me or have permission, including your days off. Disobey, and I may decide a short haircut," and he put the edges of his hands on the sides of my face, level with my chin, "starting here or shorter, will encourage you to comply. Do you want a short haircut?" he asked menacingly.
"No, Sir?" I promptly replied, confident he would carry out that threat. "Excellent, you're hired. Get dressed, Mrs. Foster; it will be a busy first day. Put your hiring bonus in your purse. My office is the first door on the right of the foyer. Please bring me a fresh mug of black coffee, and by the way, you look lovely in a ponytail. Make it happen," and my employer left me naked in his kitchen.
I had a strict but loving upbringing. My Mother and I attended Church on Sunday; my Father when possible. Every three weeks or so, I went with my Mother to her beautician to tidy up the identical short layered pixie haircuts she adored on us, and truthfully I was not fond of those haircuts; they made me look like a boy. Thankfully, I was allowed a chin-length bob during my last two years of High School.
I dressed, fixed my hair as instructed, and then brought Mr. Cain his coffee. His office, the largest room in the house, was not as I expected. It was more like a combination-study library. It had built-in bookcases filled with archive-quality leather-bound and other books, fiction, and non-fiction, including religious texts, such as the Bible. The walls were paneled, black walnut, I believe, the same dark wood as bookcases. There were Persian Oriental wool rugs on the floor.
There were two long, deep oxblood brown leather couches, a loveseat, and three comfortable club chairs with matching ottomans near the windows. Each chair had a Tiffany floor lamp. There was a library table with eight matching chairs—the table covered in paperwork and a laptop. There was an antique Dewey decimal oak cabinet; the many small drawers were where Mr. Cain kept his fine pen collection. The only photo in the room was of a small boy standing close to a woman. They were both smiling, and the little boy is holding up a fish he caught.
He thanked me for the coffee and said, "We're going to meet with my CPA first.
She will take care of all the paperwork for your new position. I'll smooth things over with your employers at the restaurants. After that, we have three other stops at places I own outright or have an interest or partnership. Do you have any questions, Mrs. Foster?"
"Yes, Sir," I replied, thinking about God and my Church to bolster my resolve and self-confidence; the man was a stranger to me, "What are my days off?" "Right to the point, as well as punctual," he said, smiling, "Saturday and Sunday unless needed otherwise. Sir is a bit stiff, considering how close we will be working together; you may call Lucas if you like."
"Thank you, Sir," I replied, determined to make the best of things and not give him a reason to find fault with me. "Have it your way, Mrs. Foster. Your ponytail needs a splash of color, and he took a long piece of red ribbon from his pocket, tied it on, making a bow.
When we got to his late-model silver-gray Chevy Suburban, Mr. Cain remembered he left his wallet with his driver's license on the kitchen table. So he gave me his keys and sent me to get them. When I came out, I was surprised to see him standing by the passenger door and pleased when he opened the door and helped me in.
After the paperwork was complete and signed, we were driving to the next venue when Mr. Cain received an urgent phone call, and he put it on speaker, "Yes, Jerry, what do you need?" "Boss, we have a problem. Tom Nelson is here and is demanding we release his backhoes and graders. He has a cashier's check for half the money and needs to finish the Arsenal Street sewer and water line contract.
He swears he can pay in full next week, and he won't take no for an answer."
"OK, Jerry, keep a lid on things. I'll be there in five minutes."
We parked in front of the main building of a sizeable paved property surrounded by a tall chain-link fence topped with razor wire and surveillance cameras. Cars, trucks, boats, RVs, anything on wheels, including a small airplane, were secured inside. There was a one-ton beat-up mud-covered pickup truck near the entrance door. I noticed a pair of binoculars and an Audubon field guide on the passenger seat as we passed to enter the building. I only mention them because they seemed out of place.
The light grey building was nonde***********, aside from a five-by-seven sign on the steel entry door that said, ASSETS COMPLIANCE RECOVERY, INC, plus a telephone number and Post Office Box address. I looked at Mr. Cain and asked, "Do you own this, and are you the Boss?" "Yes. Mrs. Foster, I have storage locations throughout the State for these recovery services, including your Mercedes. Here are the keys to the Suburban in case things get violent."
We went inside and heard a loud, angry voice, cursing and swearing, and the source of the profanity and threats was an immense and blocky, tough-looking man, wearing muddy rubber boots, stained bib overalls over a tee-shirt, and a scuffed metal hardhat. It was evident from his appearance that this ugly bristly man, desperately needed a bath and a shave was not a stranger to hard manual labor or violent confrontation.
The first thing Mr. Cain said was, "There is a Lady with me, Tom; calm down and watch your language." Tom retorted, "Fuck you; I demand my property now!" Mrs. Foster, wait for me outside?" Mr. Cain said quietly.
"No, "he said to me, "stay here," and he took a roundhouse swing missing my new employer. Mr. Cain stepped gracefully to one side and struck him blow behind the ear; the combination of the missed clumsy puncher's momentum and Mr. Cain's calculated blow sent the man crashing to the floor.
As the dazed man slowly got up, Mr. Cain picked up the man's hardhat; his angry eyes were hard and cold, like green glacial ice. Jerry was ready with a baseball bat, and Lucas ordered, "No, Jerry, I got this," and he glanced at me, saying, "Mrs. Foster?" meaning I should leave.
"I'm a witness, and you were… I didn't get a chance to finish because Jerry hollered, "Look out!"
Mr. Cain again moved to one side, his attacker failing to hit him a second time. Crouching low and with a sweeping motion, my Boss kicked his opponent's legs out from underneath him. “Stay down, Tom,” he warned. The lummox slowly got to his feet with a hammer in his hand. Before he could use it, Mr. Cain forcefully and repeatedly hammered his inept attacker's face and head with the hardhat, spattering both of them with blood from the man's broken nose and cut lips.
He didn't stop until his antagonist slumped, dazed to his knees, looking up with soon-to-be black eyes, shaking his head, and raising his arms in supplication, saying, "enough."
Mr. Cain kicked his antagonist's ball-peen hammer underneath a desk, and contemptuously threw the battered and bloody hardhat to the floor, and said, "The property you demanded. I expect the balance paid in full, in cash, by the end of the day, plus another five hundred, for disrespecting my Secretary, Mrs. Foster."
The man moaned and stood up, although only God knows how after the beating he took; he staggered to the nearest chair and sat heavily. He wiped the blood and snot from his face with a blue paisley bandana, coughed, and then said, "All right, all right, Lucas, I'll pay. Are you trying to kill me?"
"Mr. Cain ignored the question, "You owe my Secretary an apology. Are you sorry for your bad and rude behavior?" Tom Nelson nodded, yes.
Nodding is not a definitive answer," He warned him, "Mrs. Foster is waiting. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Foster. I apologize for my bad behavior," he said, defeated, again wiping his face. "What about you, Jerry? Do you need an apology?" "I'm good, Boss."
"Damn it, one punch, you need to control your temper, and why the hammer, you’re better than that, you have my cell number. I’d have worked something out." It’s too late for that now?” Mr. Cain told him, "It’s time for you to leave.”
Jerry followed him out the door, leaving me alone with the Boss, "Are you hurt?" I asked, concerned, "following him into the bathroom. "No, I'm fine." He took off his blood-spattered white shirt and threw it in the trash can. He turned on the water in the sink and started washing the blood off his hands and face. "Are you angry with me, Mr. Cain?"
He pumped liquid soap into his hand and continued washing. "We will discuss it later," he sighed, "I need a shower."
"How can you be so calm after what just happened?" I asked incredulously. " Cry "Havoc!" and let slip the dogs of war," he replied matter of factually, and I was thinking, 'Who talks like this? He beat the man to a pulp, and now he's quoting Shakespeare? And then oddly enough, I was thinking, 'That this foul deed shall smell above the earth. With carrion men groaning for burial.'
"Tom Nelson got what his hand called for, Mrs. Foster; remember that, now please pass me some paper towels." At that point, Jerry returned, "He's gone, Boss. I'll get the paperwork ready for the equipment. "Thanks, Jerry, take two-fifty out of the five, and split the rest between the crew."
Mr. Cain made a few telephone calls while he drove, rearranging his schedule and canceling appointments. "How many people work for you? I asked. "As of now, and including you, one hundred-three." "How many employees do you have there, including Jerry?" "I have five at that location." "That's fifty dollars each?"
"Yes, the lions share going to Jerry; he's in charge of the crew." "What if Nelson doesn't pay? What if he calls the police?" "He won't contact the authorities, and he will pay me, Mrs. Foster. Tom was wrong, and he knew it. Care to bet your ponytail on it?" I didn't answer. "You don't have to answer; it is a redundant question."
It was around noon when Mr. Cain was showering. "Mrs. Foster, please come here," he called out from the bathroom. So I did, as instructed. He was standing in front of the mirror, shaving, wearing only his under briefs; he paused and said, "A shave puts a shine on a man's face." I stood watching, waiting for further instructions, admiring his hard muscular body.
He was focused and relentless when he bloodied and battered that big, vulgar oaf and then made him apologize to me. It was exhilarating; Lucas Cain protected me, and as a woman, I secretly enjoyed the primal sexual periphery of that bloody encounter, ending with justice served.
I also prefer a clean shave on a man. My husband grew a scruffy van dyke beard in our later years together. He thought it made him look distinguished, and scholarly-it didn't. Mr. Cain's bathroom is efficient, with a white free-standing Japanese style soaking tub, big enough for two, and a four-sided glass-enclosed shower next to it.
When he finished shaving, he turned to look at me. "Mrs. Foster, I've been thinking. Yes, you disobeyed me," he patted some cologne on his face and neck. He then ran his hands through his damp tawny brown hair to put some scent there. "The violent encounter was unexpected and beyond your control. Violent encounters during seizures or after are a part of this business; you've no doubt lived a safe and sheltered life.
It's plausible you were frightened and frozen in place like a deer in the headlights, or perhaps you enjoyed the violence. People watch movies to see violence or horror, safe, as the voyeur for the temporary rush, knowing they are safe.
I'm responsible for you when we are together. For the record, I'm not angry with you. However, I expect prompt obedience from this time forward. We will leave shortly for a business lunch. You may freshen yourself while I get dressed," and my Boss then walked into his bedroom.
"Where are we going for lunch?" I asked as we were driving. "Barton's," he answered," they have raw oysters on the half shell. Oysters are considered an aphrodisiac that dates back to ancient Rome." "You don't believe that about oysters, do you?" I asked."Perhaps I need all the help I can get," he said with a poker face, something he's good at when it suits him.
"Did you make reservations? I hear it's almost impossible to get in without them?" "No, we don't need them." Then, I paused and asked, "Are they a business you have an interest in?" "Yes, and after lunch, we'll see my attorney for our signed contract about the house and dismiss the eviction order; per our agreement, you will live there rent-free contingent remaining in my employ. "The broiled sea scallops are excellent, and I recommend the Caesar Salad."
Mr. Cain introduced me to his partner, Mrs. Barton. She was a tall, gray-haired woman of imposing stature, all business-no-nonsense, and very gracious and polite. She had lunch with us, and they discussed building an addition to the restaurant: the generous portions of the scallops served cooked to perfection.
My goodness, the Boss enjoyed his three dozen raw oysters immensely as his lunch-I don't care for oysters at all, and the scallops are better than excellent.
We left the attorney's office around four in the afternoon. Mr. Cain drove to a pet shop, gave me a twenty, and sent me inside for a box of dog treats. "Do you have a dog?" I asked, giving him the change. "No," he answered; puzzled, I dropped the subject, and from there, he took me home.
We sat in my driveway in the Suburban for a while, "There's a late model Dodge Grand Caravan in the impound lot we use for surveillance or to block driveways. You're welcome to use it if you don't mind a soccer mom vehicle." Then Jerry called, seconds after, and Mr. Cain put it on speaker, "Hey, Boss, Tom's foreman left with all the equipment. Nelson was waiting outside in his truck, and his face looked like a bulldozer ran over it twice." And he paused to laugh.
I walked outside with his receipt and gave it to him, and he said, "Tell Lucas there are no hard feelings. You win some; you lose some." "Like him or hate him; Tom's a tough bastard…... ah, Boss, is Mrs. Foster with you?" "Yes, and she's going to be using the Caravan until further notice; you know the address."
The call ended, and Mr. Cain asked, "Do you have any questions or concerns for me?" "Thank you for the use of the vehicle, and yes, why did you hire me?"
"Has any of your friends or your husband's friends, colleagues, or golfing buddies; stepped forward to help you financially, he asked?" "None," I replied. "You did receive some moral support in the beginning, though, sympathy and condolences?" "Yes," I answered, my Church and Pastor are always there for me?"
"Commendable, and to your question, I have followed your charitable works in the newspapers and then social media. You did it out of the goodness of your heart. Yet, you mostly stayed in the background and let others take the credit, not wanting the limelight.
You declined a salary or stipend when all the others on the board took theirs. You instead donated that said money to the animal shelter. Emanuel Swedenborg described you long before you were born when he said, "True charity is the desire to be useful to others with no thought of recompense."
Did you ever wonder about the Cashier's Checks from anonymous donor 'Limited Liability Corporation?' "Was that you, Mr. Cain? Those substantial checks always included Attention-Sarah Anne Foster?" "Yes, me, Lucas Levi Cain," and he smiled, "My Father is a Lutheran Minister. You attend a Lutheran Church, I believe. My Father likes Old Testament names, or perhaps Reverand Micah Abraham Cain has an odd sense of humor. We don't always see eye to eye."
"Is your mother still alive," I asked. "No, she died when I was eight years old; My Father never remarried. So we're both people without brothers and sisters, Mrs. Foster." "My father passed," I offered, "and my Mom is living in an assisted living community in California. She has good days and bad and often confuses me with her sister, my Aunt Mary, who has also passed on."
"Back to your question, I can more than afford to help you. I think we're a good fit overall. "Are you always so blunt and to the point, Mr. Cain?" "Most of the time, yes, do you have any more questions or concerns you want to talk about?"
I did, many, but I answered, "No, Sir." "Fine, I'll see you to your door." He helped me out of the Suburban and walked me to my front door, where we stood on the porch. "You are a charming woman, Mrs. Foster, and I mean that sincerely." "Thank you," I replied, pleased with the compliment and the quote.
"Report to work by eight sharp, and until then, turn around and put your key in the lock." He ordered firmly; I recognized that uncompromising tone of voice. I fumbled in my purse for the key, put it in, and he said, "Never interpret or assume good manners and politeness are a sign of weakness.
Take your panties off and hand them back to me," I did, and fortunately, the shrubs blocked most of the view. "Excellent," the Boss praised, putting them in his pocket, "Turn around, look at me, and get close—a step closer. Put your arms around my neck; good, this is nice," and he put one arm around my waist and his opposite hand in the small back as if we were dancing.
"A French twist and red lipstick for Monday, and you will wear a skirt and blouse. You will not wear panties tomorrow, and you will shave your flower, for that is my preference. You will obey me in all things without hesitation. Do I have your word, Mrs. Foster?" "Yes, Sir," I replied. “One more thing, Mrs. Foster, bring your ribbon with you.”
I was safe again inside my home, looking through the peephole of the double-locked front door as Mr. Cain drove away. Things were moving fast and furious.
My life was beginning a new chapter, uncertain in many ways, but life is often uncertain. There are no guarantees, and I was thinking, 'Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal-Matthew 6-19, followed by a brief prayer. 'I accept whatever you have planned for me, Lord. I accept your divine will.'
Later that evening, the doorbell rang. It was Jerry. He is very loyal to Lucas.
"Here's the keys, Mrs. Foster. The tank is full." "Thank you, Jerry." "You're welcome, and good night, Ma'am," he said, looking at a text message just sent to his cellphone; "my wife wants to go out for dinner," as he turned to leave." "Jerry." "Yes, Mrs. Foster?" "How long have you worked for Mr. Cain, what's he like, and how is he to work for?"
"I met the Boss during a fight about 15 years ago." "You were fighting him?" "No, Ma'am, not exactly him, that would be suicide. I was at the Black North Inn up at Point Breeze, Lake Ontario, shooting a little billiards in the bar one evening. I do know my way around a table. I used to hustle pool, and I was single, reckless, and wild in those days. Lucas was there for the fried smelt they serve there; after finding a cabin cruiser, he tracked down and would repossess on Oak Orchard Creek.
I left the bar with a pocket full of money to get surrounded by five angry bikers in the parking lot. I'm no pushover, and two I can handle, maybe, but I would get a beating even if I gave them their money back. Lucas walked past them and up to me and asked, "I'm hiring; you want a job? Just like that, as if they weren't even there. I said, "Boss, you get me out of this pickle jar in one piece, and I'll follow you to hell wearing a gasoline raincoat." I've worked for him since. “Did you win?” I asked.
“Aside from a black eye and bruised knuckles, Mrs. Foster, yes.” And Mr.Cain, was he hurt?” “He was like the wind, Mrs. Foster; you can’t touch the wind.
Street smarts and book learning sum him up. Did you know he never went to college? It's incredible the complex math he can do in his head. He's blunt and to the point most of the time. We do things his way. Not that we don't have any input; the Boss encourages that.
If he's wrong, the Boss takes the blame. You mess up; he lets you know; continue to mess up, there's the door. When things go well, we get a bonus, and the Boss always has your back. You saw what he did with Nelson. If you are honest and loyal to him, he will pay you back ten times in the same. Good night, Mrs. Foster."
I went upstairs to my bedroom, undressed, and stood in front of the antique full-length mirror mounted on the door, studying myself. I lifted my hair, twisting it up on the top of my head, and posed, pouting and blowing kisses.
I am a forty-year-old widow; no, a desirable single woman with a home and a job.
I have choices and new experiences to explore, but first things first. So I turned on the faucets to fill the tub with hot water and put a fresh blade in my pink Lady's razor. I put a towel on the floor and stood on it.
I trimmed my thick bush with blunt tip grooming scissors, the towel catching the bulk of the hair until all that remained was uneven stubble. I then lounged in the bathtub for a half-hour or so, thinking about my new position and soaking to soften my stubble in preparation for shaving. The hot water was familiar and soothing; a hot bubble bath or hot water with essential bath oils, the lights dimmed, the water illuminated with scented candles, perhaps a glass of sweet wine, to enjoy occasionally.
I then stood in the tub and slathered my mound generously with copious amounts of shaving gel, massaging it in firmly and thoroughly before shaving gently and carefully, twice, finishing with a cold, wet washcloth. I stood in front of the mirror a second time, admiring myself, and I liked this new look. I felt fresh and clean. I also had the most restful sleep in almost a year.
I was awake early Monday morning. My blouse was a classic white tuck-in with a side tie, bow at the neck, and flutter half-sleeves. My skirt was soft cornflower blue with a high ruched fold over at the waist, A-line pleated body, and an ankle-length with a gathered bottom.
I arrived to work early and discovered a sticky note on the door that said, "Come in and lock it," I did both to find him waiting in his office. "Good morning, Mrs. Foster," he greeted, walking over to me, "You look lovely and elegant with your hair up." "Thank you," Sir." "Any questions, Mrs. Foster?" "No, Sir," I replied, "The second laptop is your work computer, the cellphone for the same purpose.
He removed a key ring from his pocket with two keys and a USB Flash drive hanging on it and put it in my hand. "The keys are for the front and back door, and the flash drive goes with the computer. Your detailed instructions for the day are on the drive. I have an appointment for a haircut. Any questions?"
"No," I replied. "Use this credit card, and don't worry about the prices; buy quality.
I notice you don’t wear jewelry. Please give me your red ribbon. Without saying a word, Mr. Cain wove and tied it cleverly around my neck, like a chocker. “One more thing, Mrs. Foster, Tom Nelson had flowers delivered here for you, they’re in the kitchen, and it was his idea. I go back aways with Tom, don’t think too badly of him,” he then turned and left.
I found two dozen yellow roses in a vase and an apology card. The card’s cover had a watercolor print of a bluebird on a branch. Tom's cursive writing was surprisingly legible. “I said a small prayer, and I forgave Mr. Nelson, and then began my duties for the day.
Mr. Cain's home is austere in how he furnished it; I noticed a lack of clutter as I went room to room. His kitchen and office are the most used. After checking the size of the beds, I spent the morning buying winter and summer weight-down comforters and linens for his home, including sheets and pillowcases for the three bedrooms. In addition, he wanted two dozen spa-quality extra-large Turkish bath towels and washcloths.
Mr. Cain looked handsome when I met him in the restaurant for lunch, clean-shaven with a neat, longish, and full-on top- shorter side and back haircut. He, Mrs. Barton, and the architect went over the blueprints for an addition to the restaurant. The architect would oversee the contactor to ensure materials and dimensions were exact to the contract and code.
Things may have started fast and furious, but the following months were routine and primarily business-related. Mr. Cain had a silent partnership with a cleaning service; he fronted the seed money. They came in three times a week. Every room was scrubbed, cleaned, dusted, and polished from top to bottom, particularly the bathroom and kitchen.
I looked forward to going to work. My duties included purchasing Mr. Cain's groceries; he had a well-stocked and organized kitchen for a bachelor, including the best cookware. He stressed all the dry goods, canned goods to be well away from expiration dates, and especially the spices.
I ran the Bosses' errands and delivered documents. I screened his phone telephone, greeted visitors, relayed messages, and took notes, regardless of whether we were in his office or driving. His business interests are diverse and interconnected, and I went to most of them with him. After these meetings, when alone, he asked for any ideas, comments, or suggestions, and I did have a few.
When Tom Nelson’s father died, Mr. Cain and I attended the wake to pay our respects. Tom Nelson thanked us for coming and introduced us to his sisters.
The Boss and Tom stepped to one side, away from everyone, conversed quietly, did the half-hug men do, and slapped each other on the shoulders before solemnly looked each other in the eye as they shook hands.
Before we left the funeral home, Mr. Cain left a sympathy card with a check enclosed for five hundred dollars as the family requested to support the hospice that cared for Tom’s father.
I must mention, the Boss is scrupulously honest in his business dealing. I also learned Mr. Cain has an idyllic memory, especially for names and people, knowing every one of his employees, all one hundred-three.
As always, he thoughtfully studies me with his intense green eyes, noticing every little change in my appearance I did to see if he noticed. He had many suggestions that weren't suggestions that surprisingly I agreed with about my clothes and makeup, including learning various updos and braids styles. I had several red ribbons now and was required to wear them in some visible manner, in my hair, as a choker or bracelet, and I incorporated them as my unique style. Mr. Cain also preferred stocking and lace garters rather than pantyhose, and I complied.
In consideration, we had lunch together most workdays, our schedule allowing, and occasional late-night dinners; perks of the job. On occasion, the late-night dinners were at Mr. Cain's home, steaks or chops, seafood over charcoal-marinated grilled salmon that is heavenly. He has logs delivered to the house, and he cuts, splits wood the old fashion way; saw, ax, wedges, and maul. The wood is for his fireplace and his grill.
Mr. Cain is always the gentleman in public. He is slow to anger and never raised his voice to me or lost his temper if I made a mistake. Instead, he corrected me quietly but firmly. I was also very attracted to him, and I tried very hard to please him.
I looked forward to Mr. Cain's hand lingering on mine or his callused hands brushing the nape of my neck when I sat close to him in a restaurant.
Late one Saturday afternoon, my day off, he called me and said, "Mrs. Foster, I've never seen you dressed casually, and without makeup, make it so" I wore white cross-trainer sneakers, snug blue jeans, and a teal peasants blouse.
He took my hair down when I arrived and then pulled me close, crushing me to him. He kissed my lips long and deep, sending thrills down my spine, and he said, "I like what I see. You look lovely, this way, with your hair down. Good news, I explained your idea to Johnson. He's going to sign a two-year contract.
There are five-one-hundred dollar bills under the newspaper for you, and as a bonus, I'm grilling us chicken breasts and scallops. You're in charge of the Caesar salad and the corn on the cob. It is going to rain today, but it should hold off until later this evening. There is a box for you in the office."
On top was a full-size black umbrella from Italy with a duck head-mallard handle. Inside was a yellow Gortex rain parka, and LL Bean Boots-both fit perfectly. I was hoping for more than just dinner; shall we say, a frolicking naked in the bedroom? We frolicked, to be sure, but not in the way I hoped. We went for a lovely and romantic long walk in the rain.
I went home and pleasured myself under the sheets, thinking about that random walk in the rain, his wet kisses, and the scent of his cologne when he stands close to me, and how he crushed me to him in his strong arms against his hard body.
I smiled when I thought of Mr. Cain with his black umbrella standing under downspouts, jumping in puddles, and dancing around streetlamps while singing like Gene Kelly in the Hollywood classic “Singing in the Rain.”
It was bitterly cold and wintery Friday in February and snowing hard with fierce winds. It was that day he claimed me as his lover.
He sent me to the wine cellar for a bottle of Graham's Vintage Port and instructed me to meet him in the bathroom with two wine glasses. I returned to find him naked and very well hung. The tub was filling with hot water. Erotic scenarios flashed through my mind when he said, "I'm going to taste your delectable flower," his eyes telling me what he wanted.
As before, I made an erotic show of stripping for him. I'd been practicing in front of the antique full-length mirror on my bedroom door. I left my hair up in a braided bun to let him take my hair down when he wished. Then, Mr. Cain handed me a wine glass and said, "I have an affinity for fine Port. Did you notice anything on the label?" He held the bottle like a sommelier for me to view.
"No," I admitted, wondering why he asked. "It is a 40-year-old vintage," he explained. Mr. Cain opened the bottle and poured two glasses, "Take a sip?" and I did, and then another. It was delicious. He took a sip and said, "It's a complex harmony of well-balanced flavors; black currant, raspberry, and strawberry with a full-body, juicy texture with a medium finish-In other words, not bad." "It's delicious," I agreed."
How old do you think I am, Mrs. Foster? Can you guess correctly, or do you know from looking at my Driver's License?" I smiled, flustered, and sipped my Port. He was smiling, and his eyes were warm and full of good humor. I was curious on my first day when I looked at his driver's license; he is thirty-five.
He put his finger in his glass and wetted my lips. He kissed me. "Your lips taste complex and sweet, the reason I kiss you." We lounged in the bathtub for half an hour or so, refreshing the tub with hot water, and finished our second glass of Port. Again, he was enjoying this and entirely at ease.
He helped me out of the tub, handing me a towel to dry myself; he did the same finishing first and then put on his briefs; his eyes were studying my naked body. "Enlightening, although not unexpected." Then, he commented, "Your nipples are hard," and he pointed to the vanity mirror.
I turned to look, and Mr. Cain stood behind with his hands wrapped around my waist; I could feel his huge hard cock pressed up against me through his briefs. He kissed my neck and face and whispered, "Keep your eyes open, Mrs. Foster," and he blew on my neck, his warm breath giving me goosebumps as he caressed my breasts and nipples with his callused hands.
I watched us in the mirror and saw the woman there, me, my mirror image having her breasts caressed. She was horny and wet, pressing against his hard cock, rotating her hips from side to side, and softly moaning with guilty salacious pleasure. He slid one hand down to her mirror image plump and dripping pussy lips, pushing them aside, and inserted two fingers, making her gasp when he touched her quivering clitoris. "Do you want to come, Mrs. Foster?" He asked, "then turn around.
Mr. Cain took my face in his hands and kissed my lips long and deep; it was me he was kissing and not my mirror image. His lips were hot and demanding. I was forty years old, and I've never been kissed like this before or felt so deliciously feminine or vulnerable. Mr. Cain picked me up as if I weighed nothing, put me on the vanity top, and partially filled his glass with Port.
He played and strummed my moist and welcoming flower with his fingers like a Guarneri del Gesù. His Maestro's fingers moved in and out of my wet and dripping cunt while rubbing and tapping like a vibrator on my smooth hairless mound with his other hand, playing all the right erotic notes on my swollen clitoris.
He deliberately prolonged my orgasm, teasing, withholding, and denying me frantic release, as he kissed my lips long and deep, pausing to drizzle the sweet wine on my breasts and sensitive erect nipples to lick them clean. Then, he finished using his tongue, tasting me as he continued the nirvana, fueling my ravenous desire until he allowed me a crescendo of multiple orgasms, the like of which I've never experienced.
I was crying when he helped me off the vanity top, and I pressed myself against him with my head on his chest, as he gently held me, to assure me as I composed myself. My thoughts were like a rollercoaster of twists and turns, climbing to the zenith and then plunging to a final stop. "Are you alright?" he asked. "I'm fine." "No, Mrs. Foster, you're not fine; you are magnificent," he praised.
"What are you going to do with me now?" I asked, assuming he was going to ravish me in the bedroom "Nothing at this moment," he replied, continuing to hold me in his strong arms.
"Why," I asked, confused and a bit annoyed, "have I displeased you?
"No, you please me very much; however, you were crying. You needed to be comforted from what you'd been through, perhaps starting with your first day with me, and, no doubt, other things you were thinking about," he answered logically and reasonably, "For the record, I'm not making you, Mrs. Foster. However, I'm intrigued by the fact you are so, shall we say, inexperienced and easily aroused; a sexual blossoming describes it best.
You have submitted to me of your own free will. It denotes imagination and intelligence, and I am not referring strictly to book learning, although I realize you're educated and well-read.
Moreover, you are a charming and modest lady, and I'll never lie to you. So answer me truthfully; have you ever in your lifetime, given or received oral sex?"
"No, I haven't," I replied, wondering how he guessed that. "Were you a virgin when you married?" "Yes," I admitted. "Interesting; I appreciate your honesty; it explains much."
The weather is terrible but should clear up tomorrow. Do you want to spend the night?" "Yes, Mr. Cain," I answered, "Yes, I do, that will be so nice." "It's settled then," he said, he walked to his bedroom, and I followed. He started to get dressed. "There is a surprise for you in the guest bedroom. You may sleep there if you wish, or you may join me. Fair warning; I often read in bed for an hour and like quiet. I have lamb chops marinating, and I'm going outside to fire up the grill. There is a cold pasta salad in the fridge."
I picked up my clothes and went to the guest bedroom. When I opened the door,
I discovered a robe laid out on the bed for me. It was a gorgeous red knee-length kimono with peacocks and white peonies. I held it up and rubbed it against my face, and it was pure and luxurious silk. There was also a white silk camisole, with narrow shoulder straps, the neck and hem trimmed with lace, and last, my red silk panties, his trophy from our first day.
I put them on, and when I went downstairs to the kitchen to help with our dinner, I heard soft jazz music playing. Another present on the table was a pair of sheepskin slippers; warm, practical, and comfortable. Maybe, ten or fifteen minutes later, Mr. Cain came into the kitchen, took off his insulated rubber boots and double-cape grey wool mackinaw while I was setting out the plates and tableware; he said, "There will be coals in thirty minutes or so. "Thank you, they're lovely, Lucas," I thanked him as I dried my hands. "Ah, I see, after all this time, now I'm Lucas?" Yes, Boss," I teased, "may I kiss you?" "You may, Sarah."
"I have something else in mind; I'm going to suck on your cock." I put my arms around his neck, kissed his lips, long and deep, and was so bold to run my fingers through his hair, feeling the contrast between long and short. I was in charge now, and soon he would be vulnerable and exposed to my womanly wiles, or so I thought, so I kissed his warm lips, lightly and teasingly.
Lucas studied me intently. He nodded knowingly and took my small hands and kissed them. Lucas then let me undress him. When he was gloriously naked, my hands were all over his buff and muscular body as I kissed my way down until I was kneeling at his feet. I rubbed my face against his hard cock, and then looked up at him standing over me.
"I want to see your eyes when you suck on my cock, Sarah. A woman's long hair enhances a man's pleasure and control, as you shall soon learn." Lucas's hard cock was twice the size of my lying husband's. Moreover, Lucas was naked and was not at all self-conscious about it.
Lucas would be at ease in a primordial jungle, with a flint-tipped spear, loin cloth optional, and he watched me, untamed and unabashed as if I were his prey, and the thought frightened and thrilled me. I was aware of the moisture between my legs, stoked by and further inflamed by the restrained savage masculinity standing over me.
Lucas slid his hard cock into my mouth while he took the hairpins out of my bun, letting my long braid hang like a thick silky hair rope on my back. He then took my braid, wrapping it partially around his hand as I looked up into his eyes, and he tugged warningly and said sternly, "When I ask for, or gesture, like so." Then, he pointed to the floor at his feet, "fellatio from here forward is non-negotiable. So when I ask for sugar, it will mean the same as pointing to the floor at my feet.
I began licking and sucking on his cock with selfish pleasure as my thoughts wandered to what I wanted. I was going to swallow his virile hot seed, knowing it would please him. I was so horny and aroused with his cock in my mouth.
I wanted Lucas to dominate me, fuck me hard from behind doggy style, and pull my hair when he fucked me. I wanted to be on top for once and for Lucas to make love to me, slowly and gently, and hold me afterward until we fell asleep together, and most of all, I wanted him to tell me that he loved me. "Slow down, Sarah," he warned, "and watch your teeth," Lucas tugged on my braid. "Better; yes, slow and sensual.
Use your tongue on the tip, good; flutter your tongue, excellent, and now lick in a circular motion, yes lick. Now, lick the shaft, yes, perfect. Next, lick and kiss my balls. That feels wonderful, keep it up; keep on sucking use your tongue while you are sucking. You are on your own, now."
Lucas closed his eyes when he orgasmed, growling softly in his throat, the dam of his virile masculinity breaking with crashing torrent waves of rushing cum in my mouth, flooding it with his hot delicious semen. I swallowed all of his sweet-salty seed greedily, licking my lips and savoring every last drop. He brought out the woman in me, his woman, as far as I was concerned. I claim him. He would have me on his terms, and I would comply.
Yes, Lucas has his ways. Some days we barely talk; when he gets involved with a complex problem or issue. He is a man of relentless focus; he's a problem solver and a leader by example. Lucas is not afraid to pitch in and get his hands dirty. I watched him help replace transmission-bull-work for a tow truck-one that could tow a semi-truck when an employee was injured, and they were short-handed at that location. That is how a true leader shows his grit and gets respect for the people working for him.
Oh, my goodness, yes, Lucas can be annoyingly blunt and frustratingly reasonable. I've spent eight hours a day, five days a week with him over these past five months. But I've also seen him in unguarded moments. When he gets his newspapers off the porch in the morning, the neighbor's chocolate lab comes over to see him. Lucas rubs Toby's head and body vigorously.
The priceless look of joy on Lucas's face, and after, his canine pal Toby, goes home wagging his tail happily with a dog treat; it's a daily ritual between them. He likes to walk in the rain at night when the streets are quiet and deserted. He says he can almost hear the distant sound of the ocean.
Most importantly, Lucas's heart and lips are truthful. Nobody who kisses with such passion can fake such a thing.
Lucas took my hands, helped me to my feet, and said, "The fire should be ready by now," and he kissed my hands and began dressing. "It sounds like the winds have died down," he commented, "the storm should abate by tomorrow. You look lovely, by the way, Sarah.
I want you to learn more variations or styles when you wear your beautiful hair down for me," and Lucas finished dressing and went outside. I brushed my hair and fixed it in a half-up, half-down style by pulling the front section back away from my face, making a cute ponytail in the back, tying it with my red ribbon. When he saw me after, he nodded, and his eyes showed his approval.
We had a cozy diner that evening, and darn it, I wasn't going to sleep alone in the guest bedroom. So I joined while he sat up against pillows on the headboard, reading where I snuggled up close. The warm bed and down comforter was a pleasant refuge from the frigid cold weather outside. He continued reading for a few minutes while I rubbed his hard chest, "Lucas," I said softly; he sighed and put his book on the nightstand, turned off the lamp, and lay down next to me. "May we talk? I asked." "Yes, what's on your mind?
"Did you ever marry?" "No, I've never had the time. My goal is to have the means to retire at fifty-five if I so choose." "Were you ever engaged?" "No, Sarah, and why all the questions?' "Because I've shared with you." "I concede that point," and then Lucas rolled to face me and pulled me close.
I continued, "So, you never married and were never engaged. It would be silly to think you're a virgin. Have you had many girlfriends or lady friends? "That is irrelevant and will serve no useful purpose to tell you... I will share this with you, Sarah; I always sleep alone, solo, until now. I've never invited any woman to spend the night at my home.
Do you have any other questions or concerns?" and he kissed my forehead. "No," I replied. I did, but I knew him well enough not to push it. He rolled over on his back; I snuggled closer to him and was soon fast asleep, feeling safe and warm.
Lucas was up before me the following morning. I heard him moving around downstairs. It had stopped snowing by then. The sun was out, and the roads and streets cleared. While I was brushing my hair in front of the bathroom vanity mirror, Lucas walked in with a cup of coffee for me the way I liked it. He said, "Let me help you," I handed him my brush, and he began brushing, and he was not a novice at all, "I hope you slept well, Sarah; "Yes," I replied, "and you?" "Yes, very well, thank you."
I enjoyed this intimate moment enhanced when he quickly and skillfully braided it for me in a lovely three-strand braid and secured it with an unusually long red silk ribbon, wrapping it several times and tying it in a bow. I turned, putting my arms around his neck, and kissed his lips. I then playfully messed up his neatly combed hair. "I wish you wouldn't do that," so naturally, I did it again. Lucas sighed; I adore when he does that, and I pushed his hair back in place.
"I received a phone call while you were sleeping, Sarah. I have a complex and delicate issue to solve regarding you. I'll be in my office, so don't disturb me except for an emergency. I've decided you shall have bangs to frame your face and accent your beautiful blue eyes."
Before I could speak to protest, he warned, "Don't argue with me, Sarah. I decide how you wear your hair, and you know the possible consequence for disobedience," I did, and not just bangs, but a short haircut. Bangs could be a nice change, I told myself. "Your hair appointment is at 5:00 pm, and I will take you there," and he left to go to his office.
The "Black Pearl Salon" was a fashionable exclusive-by-appointment-only establishment and very expensive. Lucas had no business interest as far as I knew, and the woman owning it had a reputation for being an opinionated bitch, as well as a liking younger men.
I overheard this by two women gossiping about Ms. DeVane in the ladies' room at a one-thousand-dollar-a-plate fundraising event for the hospital. Elizabeth DeVane couldn't attend; however, she sent a handwritten card in response to her RSVP, with a check enclosed for one grand.
Wealthy upper-class society women flocked to her salon, like groupies, and it flourished. As we sat in the parking lot, Lucas said, "Beth knows what bangs I want for you, Sarah. She knows her place, "and he kissed my cheek, "aside from sexy bangs will set off your blue eyes and give them an aura of mystery. You will sit quietly in the chair. You will remain silent during your visit, and so will Beth."
We walked in to hear her admonishing one of her staff in a critical, overbearing- haughty voice about something or other. "It appears Beth is in rare form today?" Lucas observed.
In her mid-fifties, Ms. DeVane was a buxom, voluptuous, and curvacious woman with a clear light olive complexion and long, shimmering auburn-brown hair twisted in a low braided chignon at the back of her head. She was wearing white slacks and a black smock blouse.
Lucas motioned to her with his hand, and then the three of us went to a small, well-lit private room behind her office with an old-fashioned barber's chair. Lucas closed and locked the door, helped me off with my coat, and then Elizabeth DeVane sat me in the chair. The barbers' chair worried me; was it a message sent; how short would my bangs be, or worse, 'would she use electric clippers and thinning shears,' were the thoughts racing through my mind. Was Lucas angry with me messing up his hair this morning?
As Ms. DeVane caped me, I looked at Lucas pleadingly, and his stern eyes told me to be silent and comply. Ms. DeVane turned to Lucas, and her demeanor and posture seemed to change; she looked less arrogant and imperious; she was detrimental towards him and eager to please him.
Lucas walked over to us and spun my chair until I was facing away from them. I couldn't see what was happening, not even in the mirror, but I knew he took her to the other side of the room. He was murmuring; I strained to hear but couldn't make out the words. She said nothing. And then he returned to the barbers' chair.
Lucas took my hand and helped me out of the chair to the wash sink. My compliant stylist took my braid out, giving Lucas my red ribbon. She washed and lightly conditioned my hair and wrapped it in a towel to blot the water before carefully combing me out while looking for split ends.
Before she started cutting, Lucas turned my chair until I was facing away from the mirror. Elizabeth DeVane secured my damp hair on top of my head with three large plastic claw clips, bringing it down in sections, cutting it straight across the bottom, removing about an inch, using the fresh cut sections as the guide, as my long-time stylist does. She then parted my hair several times before my face until she was satisfied, pulling the rest of my hair behind me in a low ponytail.
My haircut seemed to take forever, and I wasn't allowed to watch. I was getting aroused, and I was all I could do to sit still. Finally, my stylist finished my bangs; I couldn't see them, and when I reached up from under the cape to touch them, "No, Mrs. Foster, she's not finished. Beth, continue."
My damp hair was blowdried and brushed out before Elizabeth pulled it back, fixed it in a high ponytail with an elastic hair tie, and then used the red ribbon to make a bow. I again tried to touch my thick eyebrow-length blunt bangs. "I warned you, Mrs. Foster, to sit still and cooperate. Give me the scissors, Beth, now," he ordered.
My mind was racing, was Lucas going to cut my ponytail off? My thoughts were conflicted; a mishmash of apprehension, dread, and hope; it would take years to grow my hair this long again. I was trapped. Where could I go? Lucas is too powerful to resist; he can easily hold me down in the chair while he cut it off, and what about her? Would she help him?
Smiling, Ms. DeVane handed Lucas the scissors. "Get on your knees, Beth!" I lifted my skirt, and my hand was pushing on my mound, my panties wet in my arousal.
Beth's eyes were pleading as she knelt before him. "Lucas, please, we," "Silence, woman," he warned, or I'll use the electric clippers this time." He walked behind her and took the pins out of her chignon, letting her thick, auburn-brown braid fall to the floor.
It was so warm in there. I could feel my heart beating, and I was breathing heavily. My face was flushed, and I was perspiring. Heaven help me, I was having a gentle orgasm; I wanted more, I wanted Lucas to fuck me hard; I pulled the cape off, "Stop squirming and sit up straight, Mrs. Foster, "Lucas admonished and put your arms on the chair armrests. I'll deal with you later." I now had a death grip on them.
He was not gentle when he grabbed her braid and pulled her head back, the scissors chewing through the thick plait showing no mercy until it was off. Beth's head fell forward; her once luxurious tresses were now ragged and choppy, just touching the nape of her neck, and her braid was in his hand.
"Open your mouth, and then bite." Lucas thrust the severed plaint in her mouth, "Excellent, now look at me. It was enjoyable while it lasted, Beth; however, all things must come to an end. I forgive you."
Lucas walked to the door, holding my long wool coat. "Mrs. Foster, we're leaving." I turned briefly to glance at her, kneeling, with her teary eyes cast down with her long braid in her mouth. As we left, I wondered what he forgave her for; however, I was secretly glad about the guilty pleasure I got to see him cut off her braid, thankful it was not me.
On the drive to his home, I kept glancing in the passenger door side window to look at my sexy blunt-cut bangs. They made me look much younger and youthful with my ponytail, and I adored them.
After we entered his home, Lucas locked the door behind us. He turned to look at me in the foyer, and his intense green eyes were hungry and feral, giving me goosebumps, knowing I was his prey.
“Undress quickly, woman,” he ordered quietly, “everything off, now,” as he did the same, tossing his clothes to one side. He pointed to the floor. I was thinking about my haircut and hers; how she submitted to him without question in front of me.
Lucas would have used the clippers on her had she not obeyed him, of that I am sure. These thoughts sent a thrill up my spine as I got on my knees, looked up into his intense, hungry green eyes, and started licking and sucking on his big cock, while he twisted my ponytail around his hand; he was studying me intently.
“No,” he said abruptly, “I’ve changed my mind. As always, your body betrays you, Mrs. Foster. Your plump-shaved pussy is moist and welcoming. I can smell the musky scent of your arousal, my precious long-haired slut. You enjoyed your erotic haircut, all aspects of it as I knew you would, and those thoughts linger; excellent.
You are about to learn the difference between slow, gentle intercourse-love making and being fucked because I’m going to fuck your cunt unmercifully, Mrs. Foster-stand up. I did, and he crushed me to him. I could feel his hard throbbing cock pressed up against me as he lightly kissed and then licked my lips.
“You’re a pretty submissive slut,” he said softly, “say it.” “I’m a pretty submissive slut,” I repeated, announcing the word “Slut, licking my lips, and I was thinking, ‘He’s never sworn or used profanity, let alone being lewd or vulgar. Now he’s talking dirty, and so was I. “Who’s pretty slut are you, Mrs. Foster?” “I’m your pretty slut, Sir.” “Do you want me to fuck your cunt? Beg me to fuck your cunt.” “Please, fuck me, Sir. Fuck me hard, fuck my cunt and make your pretty slut come,” I was blushing and feeling so very naughty.
“Not yet, pretty slut. Play with your ponytail, ”I did, feeling the silky texture and weight of my thick and beautiful ponytail tresses. All the while, my Sir caressed my breasts, paying particular attention to my nipples, licking, sucking, lightly biting, and pinching them until my swollen cunt was wet and practically dripping with my juices. I felt a petite orgasm starting to happen, and he didn’t even finger fuck me as before. He prevented me from coming by slapping my ass sharply.
“You don’t have permission to come, pretty slut; remain silent until I say otherwise,” My Sir admonished,” take your hair down, and then hand me your ribbon.” He put the ribbon around his neck like a tailor’s tape measure and then arranged my hair about my back and shoulders. He took my chin in one hand, turning my head from side to side, “Your new bangs make you look younger,” he praised, “turn and put your hands behind your back, palms out, and cross your wrists.”
My Sir quickly tied my wrists together, lashing them and securing with a quick-release nautical knot, which explained the very long ribbon. “Your red ribbons are genuine silk,” he explained and very strong. If I chose a different knot, you couldn’t get loose, as it would tighten as you struggled.
He pushed my hair completely over my shoulder and down my back, smoothing it with his hand, and then stroked my bangs, saying, “I want your hair longer, Mrs. Foster-the bottom of your ass cheeks will be perfect. If I add another piece of ribbon to that on your wrists, I can further restrain you by tying it into your hair, which is very secure and effective when braided. Yes, a submissive woman’s long hair has many uses.
Using my long hair like a leash, Mr. Cain brought me into our office, untied my wrists, and made me bend over the armrest of a leather couch. He gathered my hair back to front, pulling it forward until it covered my face, and then tied my hair at the bottom with my red ribbon, making a blindfold.
He slowly slid his thick throbbing cock into my wet cunt, making me gasp with pleasure as I squirmed and pushed against him. Lucas then lustily and brutally fucked me while I braced myself with my arms. He pounded my wet, slut cunt with his hard cock in a fast, brutal ravenous cadence-in and out, in and out. He was rough, uncaring, and relentless, thrusting and impaling me without mercy. I couldn’t see a thing.
As his hot seed pumped into me, my intense and prolonged orgasm peaked violently, overwhelming my thoughts and leaving me disoriented for a moment as I went limp in the pleasurable after-glow. I was sure my eyes were glazed.
“Sarah Anne,” he said softly, taking the ribbon out, “sit next to me.” Lucas put a fleece throw blanket over our shoulders, gently took me in his arms, and we cuddled. There was no need for words. I could hear his heart beating, and being near him was comforting. What more did I need? I loved him.
After, we soaked in the tub with a glass of Port. I had vanilla-scented candles in my mini-van. He let me darken the bathroom to enjoy the flickering candles reflecting softly on the water. We had Chinese delivered, pork Lo Mein, chicken w/broccoli, and steamed dumplings.
That evening, before joining Lucas in bed, I fixed my hair in a loose side braid and tied it with my red ribbon. He was reading, but he put his book down when I got into bed to cuddle with him.
"Will you tell me about Elizabeth DeVane? "It's complicated, and it may upset you, Sarah." "Well, I am your red ribbon girl? "Good point," he admitted, "my red ribbon girl and so much more now." "Will you tell me, Lucas, please?"
"OK, here is the short version. I answered an ad in an erotica magazine fifteen years ago; call it youthful curiosity and a taste for the wild side. I was twenty when I met Elizabeth, and she thirty-four.
Little did I know, Elizabeth imagined herself to be a Dominatrix, imagined being the keyword. I assumed she preferred younger men as the ad stated; she lied. In the beginning, we met in different restaurants or other venues and then went to motels or her cabin on the lake. We were discreet. You must admit, she's a fine-looking woman. You're starting to tense up. Is something wrong? "No, I'm fine." "Sarah, she means nothing to me. You heard what I said to her, shall I continue?" "Yes, please."
"I was also Beth's escort for charity events or other things of that nature; suitable venues for establishing business contacts, which I did. One evening, for the first time, Elizabeth invited me to her house for a steak dinner with instructions to let myself in. I brought a bottle of red wine. There were two vehicles parked there, her red Jaguar XKR and a black Harley full dresser Road King that I'd seen somewhere before.
I rang the doorbell, nobody answered; I opened it, and I called out, "Elizabeth, it's Lucas?" "Come in, lover," she said, through the intercom, "and follow the trail of red rose petals on the floor." OK, I thought, this is different. The petals led to another door. I opened it. That's it, the shortest version. The end"
"Lucas!" I exclaimed. "Sarah!' he retorted, and he was chuckling. "Will you please stop teasing and tell me what happened next?" I asked.
"Pretty, please with sugar on it," he said, and I pinched him. "Well, since you put it that way, I opened the door to a semi-dark room, her bedroom, with a master bath to the left. I walked on a path of white flower petals illuminated by floating lit candles in clear vases leading to a circular bed. On the bed were coils of rope, two sets of handcuffs, scissors, a blond wig, ball-gag, and Elizabeth.
Her hair was up in a high ponytail, and she was wearing a black leather bodysuit with high stiletto heels, charming. She had a riding crop in her hand. She strode up to me with her head held high, trying to appear regal, and stroked my face with the riding crop. She said, "Get on your knees and worship me. You may then kiss my feet."
I smiled, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the closet door open a crack. "You've got to be kidding, Elizabeth, kneel before you," I said, laughing, "Nice costume, though; I like my steak rare and bloody."
Elizabeth became angry and perhaps was a bit surprised. She glanced at the closet and tried to hit me several times with the riding crop I casually blocked with the wine bottle before taking it from her and throwing it at the closet door. "Obey me!" she shrieked; "I know what you are; how dare you to defy me after all I've done for you!" The closet door flew open with a loud bang, the doorknob denting the plaster, and then?"
Lucas pushed my hair away from my face and kissed my cheek. "There, satisfied, now beautiful? "No, finish the story." "Oh, very well, if you insist. And don't pinch me again," and he gave my bottom a light slap.
"By then, the Harley parked outside clicked. I knew where I saw him; the man owned a Harley and Mercedes dealership. Elizabeth introduced him to me at a party, and he gave me his business card. I located and repossessed six motorcycles for him, and one of them was in pieces; not my fault. DeLuca kept ducking me for payment, making excuses. I filed court papers with the County. DeLuca showed up to Court with an attorney; I couldn't afford one.
I argued my case and won. DeLuca rode up to me on that motorcycle, or one similar, and confronted me in the Courthouse parking lot. He called me an upstart punk, among other things; every other word was profanity. He challenged me to fight him; He was going to teach me a lesson. I laughed at him. I declined his challenge and left.
"Back to Beth's bedroom, DeLuca was wearing black leather Harley biker logo gear; jacket, boots, and leather pants with a custom belt made from motorcycle chains, with a hidden knife disguised as a belt buckle, a potential weapon. DeLuca imagined himself an outlaw biker who deemed me a coward and a punk, at the very least, given our previous encounter.
No doubt, David DeLuca had a high opinion of his fighting prowess. He had a coiled bullwhip in his right hand. I'll handle this,” he said, annunciated loudly," cue a saber raised in the air and cavalry bugle sounding a charge; just kidding, and he cracked the whip inches from my face, "get the handcuffs Elizabeth while I teach the punk a lesson." I thought I was in a poorly ***********ed movie with terrible corny actors, the plot dependant on props, pomp, and bravado.
"What did you do?"I asked, "Did you hit him with the wine bottle?" "Don't be ridiculous; why risk ruining a good bottle of wine?" Then what did you do?" I asked
I tossed the bottle at him underhand; he flinched, then I neutralized him with a Mawashi Geri" "What's a Mawashi Geri?" I asked. "It's a roundhouse kick to the head and very effective," Lucas replied matter of factly. "And things didn't turn out as Elizabeth DeVane planned at all when I grabbed Beth's long ponytail as she lunged for the scissors on the bed, stopping her in her tracks. I forced her to her knees. She betrayed me; she lied to me; for all, I know they intended to extort me, and I was angry and justifiably so.
I informed her, "DeLuca will be unconscious for a few minutes and may have a concussion," and I forced Beth to lie on her stomach, holding her head to the carpet by standing on her ponytail. "Dear Elizabeth," I said to her," watching for DeLuca to stir,” no, make that, Beth; I know calling you that irritates you, so get used to it. It’s best to learn the difference between wishful thinking from reality; this is reality, Beth." She was terrified and was crying.
"Listen carefully, and don't lie to me, and I may allow you to keep your long hair. Were you recording this? Where are the cameras and recording equipment? I asked. "The DVR recorder is in the closet; what are you going to do to me?" Please don't hurt me, Lucas," she sobbed, "Dave said you're a coward and a sissy-boy crossdresser, and," I interrupted. "I get the picture, Beth," he’s a liar,” and I stepped off her hair.
"Go to that corner," I ordered, pointing, "remove that ridiculous costume and then stand there naked facing the wall. No matter what happens, don't turn around, don’t say a word without permission, or you'll learn what the riding crop feels like."
I turned my attention to DeLuca; "Pull out that hidden knife, and we'll have a second go at it." DeLuca shook his head no, wincing, "I thought as much,” I told him, “take off that fancy belt toss it over there," and he did. "We have now established who is a base coward and a liar.
I'll talk, and you'll listen. The DVR is still recording even now. You and Beth have much to lose if it falls into the wrong hands. Your wife is the significant shareholder and the money behind both dealerships, and all that it implies if she sees it or it goes public-your Frankenstein, not mine. Do we have an understanding?" "Yes," he replied. “Excellent, the DVR is mine for safekeeping and my silence. Do your part, and I’ll take mine to the grave.
In consideration, you own property I want near the airport. I'll pay you a fair market price in three weeks. Make it happen. But, for now, listen carefully; you got mugged tonight, multiple assailants, and you didn't get a clear look at them; they were wearing masks. A good Samaritan who you never saw before will drive you to the hospital. You may have a concussion and need to go to the hospital regardless. I want you healthy and alert for the pending sale.
One more thing, DeLuca, she’s off-limits to you; no retaliation, understood?" He nodded yes, put his hand to his head, and said, I feel dizzy, and I’m going to be sick. "Use the bathroom, sissy; it's over there," I mocked him.
"Who drove him to the hospital? Was it Jerry? I asked. "Yes."I knew it, and the property was for Assets Compliance Recovery Services?" Yes, again," Lucas replied. "Did you use the riding crop on her?” "No, my good right hand on her bare bottom worked just fine after DeLuca left.” "Did you cut her hair that night? “Yes, most of her ponytail while Beth pleasured me with her mouth.” What about Deluca? What happened with Beth after he left? Did you make her kiss your feet?"
"End of story, Sarah, understand?" "But," and he interrupted, "But is not a yes, Sarah, Understand. "Yes, Sir," I replied, intrigued learning about the spanking and haircut. “You will grow your hair longer for me, red ribbon girl.” Yes, Sir.” I agreed, thinking about him cutting the kneeling Ms. Devane’s hair while she sucked on his hard cock. She deserved it.
Do you like your bangs, Sarah?' "I adore my bangs. They give me a bit of panache" "I agree, not to mention, without makeup, you'd look bookish, like a librarian if your hair was up, add the right glasses; now there's a thought. Can your stylist duplicate the results-your bangs?' Yes, why do you ask?" "You won't be going back to the Black Pearl Salon."
Sunday evening, I was curled up in a chair reading a book of ***********ed poetry when Lucas leaned over and kissed my cheek. "You have shared many things with me, including that you sold your jewelry, and the only regret was the gift from your mother father. You were very kind to spare her feelings about the loss.“
"I remember; it was God's will, so I moved on and found you."I stood up and hugged him." Why are you bringing this up now?" He reached into his pocket and said, "Close your eyes and hold your hand out."
I did, and when I opened my eyes, I saw a small piece of the heavy-linen parchment paper folded with something inside. Written on it, in Lucas's cursive, "Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, for where your treasure is, there will your heart be also." He was in part quoting Matthew 6.
The meaning was clear to me, and my heart leaped with joy. There was no mistaking it; inside was my 18kt gold cross, with the small dent in one corner. The cross and chain were a gift from my Mom and Dad when I left home. What Lucas did for me was priceless, almost beyond words, and he left me speechless as I stood there looking at him.
"Before I met you, I stopped to look at the community bulletin board in the library with the business cards tacked to it. One, in particular, caught my eye advertising buy/sell/trade fine fountain pens, writing instruments, and such. I put that card in my coat pocket and forgot about it until I got home.
When I removed it, it wasn't the business card I ***********ed. The one I put in my pocket was white-stock with blue lettering. The one I took out was light violet with dark-purple lettering. I had no use for the items advertised and used it for a bookmark in the book you are reading. Two months ago, on a hunch, I met with the eclectically attired woman who purchased your cross and chain. She never put her cards at that library.
Lilly Moon runs a healing jewelry and herb-essential oils shop out of her home in Watkins Glen, NY. She invited me for a cup of herbal tea. Lilly was adorned in bracelets and bobbles and beads with rings on every finger. She reminded me of a retro-aging flower child with rose-colored granny glasses.
She was wearing your chain with a twisted gold wire pendant, twisted gold wire with a loop wrapped around a cluster of deep purple-amethyst crystals. She described all the stones adorning her as 'healing or channeling stones? To each their own, as they say. She declined to sell me the chain, but she did purchase it legally and in good faith. I was waiting for the right time to give it to you. What better time than this?
I'm going to bed to read for a while. We need to be up early to look at some agriculture-zoned property-20 acres adjacent to Oneida Lake I want to purchase. Although it's a beautiful lake, it's not the fickle Atlantic with the tempest fury of angry waves rising and crashing against the rocky shores during a storm. Then the gentle, calm, rhythmic, apologetic waves caressing the sandpipers' tiny feet as they hop about the beaches.
The expression on his face changed, and although he was looking at me, his eyes and mind seemed elsewhere. "I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, and all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by. There's more to that poem, "Sea Fever, by John Masefield.
I did, after all, grow up on the coast in Maine. He picked up the poetry book and gave it to me. "I suggest page twenty –two; I'm rather fond of that poem. See you in a bit." When he left, I turned to the page to read the poem "Perfect Woman" by William Wadsworth. Lucas saved the page with Lily's Business card.
I don't know how long I sat there, euphoric and blessed, thinking about him, thinking about us, my eyes moist with tears. Was it his way of telling me he loved me? I’m sure it was. I went upstairs and found a new gold chain on my pillow. God bless him and keep my love safe- Lucas was sound asleep.
Lucas wanted a prim and proper librarian type, and I’ve always been modest in my speech and dress. That is Lucas’s preference as well. The Bible-in Timothy says in part, ‘women should adorn themselves in respectable apparel, with modesty.’ Our first official date happened the following May when the weather was warm and balmy. Lucas told me to wait for him at the Dew Drop Inn at around 5:00 PM on a Tuesday during happy hour.
I noticed a few of the young men at the bar turn to watch me as I walked and sat on a barstool at the end, where I ordered a glass of white wine from the bartender. Although not upscale by any means, the atmosphere of the Inn and restaurant is warm and welcoming.
I carefully ***********ed my attire for our date, starting with a white long-sleeve ruffled front button blouse, a charcoal-grey wool knee-length pencil skirt, and black high heels. I put my hair up in a sleek, sexy bun, and I wore round black glasses on a sparkly rhinestone eyeglass chain to complete the look.
It wasn’t long before an average-looking man around Lucas’s age wearing an expensive handmade suit to walk over and strike up a conversation. His associate-friend at the table was watching us see if he will score. I watched in the bar’s mirror as he slipped his wedding band from his finger into his pocket.
He tritely asked, “My friend and I are wondering, are you a movie star in disguise?” “No, and you are, Sir?” I asked, amused by the lack of originality in his corny pickup line.
“My name is Bob Smith. Are you interested in some company?” “That depends, Bob Smith.” “Depends on what?” he asked, flashing a smile while thinking he scored a point. “Whether or not you are married?”
“Does that matter these days,” he asked, still smiling. “Yes, it means a great deal to me,” I replied, taking a sip of wine. Before Bob Smith-not his real name could respond, “Bartender, I’ll have a shot of Jim Beam and a Bud, please” Lucas slapped a Jackson on the bar and got between us.
I’ve never seen him dressed like this before. He looked like a road construction worker wearing blue jeans, scuffed and tar-covered work boots, and a sleeveless safety-yellow tee shirt. He acted as if Bob wasn’t there. Lucas downed his shot and turned to me, “Good afternoon,” he greeted me, “My name is Lucas Cain,” “I’m Sarah Foster good afternoon, Lucas, are you married?” “No, perhaps someday, are you?” He asked, going along with our little game.
Before I could answer, Bob-not, his real name, tapped Lucas on the shoulder, and when Lucas turned to look at him, Bob made a show of sliding hundred dollar bills in Lucas’s tee shirt pocket. “Why don’t you find another watering hole, and leave, Ace.”
“Let me get this straight, Lucas said… Ah, I didn’t catch your name?” “He says he’s Bob Smith,” I offered. Lucas took the money out of his pocket, “Gosh!” Lucas exclaimed, playing the bumpkin, “this is a lot of money, and you’re giving it to me? Just like that and no strings attached?” “Yes, provided you leave.”
The bartender, an older man in his late sixties, watched the conversations with amused interest, “Bartender, a round of drinks for everybody, and keep the change,” Lucas announced loud enough for everyone to hear as he slapped the money from his shirt pocket on the bar. The two waitresses then went from table to table, taking drink orders, while the bartender saw to those sitting at the bar, giving them a drink or a chit wooden nickel with the Inn’s name on to use later.
Lucas turned to me and said, “Sarah, I’ll be direct with you.” and he took his Driver's License out of his pocket and gave it to me, “I’m single and looking for a long term relationship, and more," he held his hands up to show lack of a ring, “and a Lady can’t be too careful. You are a pretty woman. Would you?”
“Are you obtuse?” Bob asked loudly, interrupting, “I paid you to leave.”
“Obtuse, isn’t that a musical instrument, like a big clarinet?” Lucas asked innocently. “That’s an Oboe,” Bob retorted frustratingly. My cousin Carol plays the clarinet,” Lucas offered pleasantly,” she never got paid for it. I’ll be leaving here eventually; it's not like I live here, now,” and Lucas again turned to me, leaving Bob glaring at him in disbelief. Goodness, I could barely keep from laughing at the bewildered Bob; this was so much fun, not as we planned, but fun nonetheless.
“As I was saying, Sarah. Would you like to have dinner here with me this evening? They don’t serve gourmet, but the food is good. There’s an Irish band playing later, starting at seven, and we could dance?” I gave him his license back, “Well, Lucas, I usually don’t,” I didn’t finish as Bob interrupted.
“Listen, Lucas, that’s not how it works,” Bob said, changing tactics and explaining to Lucas as if he was dense or slow on the uptake; “Sarah and I were having a pleasant private conversation before you rudely interrupted us. Look at me, and look at you, and the way we dress. I’m a successful stockbroker, a man of business, my slow-witted friend, and you’re not. I buy and sell people like you for a living. I wear custom suits while you shop at the marts. You have shit on your cheap Walmart clod hoppers while mine are, Berlutis’ that cost two-thousand for a pair. Stop wasting her time; she’s not interested in you. You’re not in her league or mine. Do you understand now, Simpleton?”
“It’s road tar on my shoes, Bob, and my last name is not Simpleton; I don’t know that family. My name is Lucas Levi Cain. I know a Ralph Templeton, though; I went to school with him; Ralph has a transmission shop in Bangor, Maine. Wait a minute, are you insulting me, Bob?”
“Of course I’m insulting you, you moronic imbecile. You wasted two hundred dollars of my money for nothing! What did you gain by it?”
“I didn’t waste it; the money is mine, per our agreement, the duration for leaving immediately not stipulated, and open for interpretation. I invested the said money in people as a gesture of goodwill and camaraderie.”
Lucas held his glass up for a toast, and patrons at the bar or in earshot did too,” A toast to Charles Dickens, who wrote, and I quote, ‘Says Marley’s Ghost to Scrooge, ‘Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence were, all, my business.’
Take note of that, Bob, lest you linger as an earthbound ghost, or worse, are cast into Dante’s Inferno.”
“Big words for a loser, with no money, give me my two-hundred now, or I’ll kick your ass!” Bob demanded, turning red with anger and embarrassment at being mocked and made the fool in front of everyone.
By then, his friend walked up next to him. I assumed for support or as a backup. “Dan, let's go, forget the money; you can afford it.” “No, the money is a matter of principle.” “That was a good one,” the bartender said, laughing and stepping from behind the bar to join us.
“What a load—a matter of principle, Mr. fancy shoes, Dan. I saw you put your wedding band in your pocket. You, a married man, lying about your name, attempting to cheat on your wife, and then trying to get into, sorry, begging your pardon, Ma’am. Do you know Lucas?” “I’m his secretary, Sarah Foster. We were to meet here at five. “Sarah’s more than my secretary, Sam,” Lucas explained, squeezing my hand.
I’m pleased to me you, Sarah. I’m Sam O’Brian. I suspected there was something funny going on. I met Lucas a ways back at the Greyhound bus station; he had a knapsack and nothing else. He lived in my back room here for a while. Tom Nelson stopped by a few weeks ago, Lucas. And good bouncers like you two are hard to come by; different styles, same outcome.”
Lucas said nothing and calmly sipped his beer. Sam continued, “What’s all this crap?” Dan asked, “Old home week. I demand to see the owner, or I’ll sue!” exclaimed the angry, outed, lying, phony Dan, “this is a shake-down.”
“And you, Mr. Snooty-nose Stockbroker, who thinks he’s better than everybody else. I own this place, and I don’t need your business.” Sam told him.
By now, many of Sam’s regular customers gathered around Dan and his friend. Sam continued. “Kick Lucas’s ass, you say? Tougher men than you have tried. Leave, now, you are upsetting my customers; they don’t like you! I don’t like you. Leave unless you want Lucas to tie your ears under your chin.”
They made a subdued retreat, their shoulders hunched over, and glancing worriedly behind them as a few customers followed them out, hurling catcalls and insults,” My favorite, “Hey Cinderella, do your fancy shoes turn into plastic flip-flops at midnight?”
I asked, Lucas although I knew the answer, which made me love him all the more, “Why did you let him insult you when you can easily beat him in a fight? ”Sun Tzu said it best, Sarah. “The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.
Fighting him would serve no useful purpose. He is not a threat to me, let alone a challenge. Instead, he is all bluster and bravado. Tom Nelson is another story. Suppose Tom lands one punch, the fights over. I have seen him do it, and Tom will not kick or stomp a man when he’s unconscious on the ground, as will others. Tom is not an overly mean or vindictive man, despite his temper and crude language at times. It may surprise you; Tom’s a birder and breeds homing pigeons. It’s hard to imagine a small delicate bird being held gently in one punches’ massive hands.
Tom was sincere when he asked Jerry to tell me, ‘no hard feeling,’ and we made our peace at his father’s wake. Our fighting days are over.”
“You’ve fought him before?” “Yes, while Dan defeated himself, and I pity his wife. It would be a different story if Dan put his hands on you, which I will not tolerate.
Lucas and I had a good laugh over the whole episode during dinner, and by seven, the place became busy with people there to drink, dance, and listen to the band, and the band was excellent. Lucas held me close while we danced, always the gentleman, except when he boldly took my hair down, as I knew he would.
By nine, the Inn became packed; standing room only, and Sam’s wife, Gina, came to help out. She made a beeline to Lucas and hugged and kissed him before he had a chance to introduce me. She then scolded him for not telling her sooner he had a lady in his life and not bringing me to the house for dinner. She hugged me and said, “You’re invited any Sunday, for a pot of sauce,” and jumping ahead, we went a few weeks later, and Gina fussed over Lucas, as would an Italian mother with her only son.
For old times sake, Lucas helped Sam behind the bar making drinks with a flair, flipping bottles, doing fancy pours, juggling glasses, and the like, and the customers loved it. I put an apron on and helped Gina waitress for a while. As a side-note, having worked as a waitress in several restaurants, I’ve never seen such a spotlessly clean kitchen, floor to ceiling clean; it was like my mother’s kitchen, regardless of where we lived, but I digress. Lucas was thoroughly enjoying himself, Sam along with him, and at closing, we gave our tips to the waitresses.
It was around 1:00 AM when we went to my home to spend the night, and we were taking the next day off-Bosses orders. I closed and locked my front door and turned to Lucas. While I was hugging him and getting ready to tell him I loved him, the doorbell rang, and there was a knock on the door. I heard a familiar voice, “Sarah, it’s me, Pastor Dean, we need to talk.” I feared the worst; I listed him as a person to contact in an emergency.
“I’m so sorry to tell you this. Your mother’s in the hospital. I spoke with the Floor Nurse an hour ago. She’s unresponsive and confused when awake and is talking in her sleep. Here is the address and telephone number.” He handed me a paper. “You haven’t answered your phone, and I have been trying to contact you since seven pm yesterday.
I won’t sugarcoat it; it may be a matter of hours or a day at the most. “She’s in God’s hands now,” I replied, “I’ll need to make plane reservations,” I said, looking at my phone to see the ringer turned off.
“I checked, no flights until late tomorrow afternoon,” my Pastor advised, “Standby is an option. What more can I do to help?”
“Pastor,” Lucas said, “please stay with Sarah until I get back,” and to me, “Honey, don’t worry, I’ll get us there in a matter of hours, whatever it takes. I promise.”
Lucas had changed and was back in less than an hour. I was packed and ready to leave. We drove to a private airstrip adjacent to the main airport with a small Learjet 45XR fueled and waiting. “Lucas shook hands with Mr. Johnson, the pilot-also the jet’s owner and then introduced me to the man who liked my idea, and soon, we were in the air.
My mother was asleep when we walked into the hospital room. I sat down next to her and took her hand. Mom opened her eyes, and they were clear and bright and happy; Mom’s voice was strong and confident, and she was squeezing my hand. “Your father’s waiting for me; he is standing behind you and sends his love. I told him I wasn’t leaving until you came.” “Yes, Mom, I’m here now.”
I see you’re wearing your Cross, returned by the power of faith and prayer, your father told me. I love you, Sarah Anne.” “I love you too, Mom,” I replied, tears in my eyes. “I’m in between worlds, Sarah. I can feel the love beyond the veil; I’ll be part of it soon. I can see… it’s so beautiful,” Mom closed her eyes and passed. I felt his hands on my shoulders. I turned, and his eyes were closed as if deep in thought or prayer.
Lucas was there for me; he sustained and comforted me. We stayed there for a week, putting her affairs in order. We laid her to rest in the Jacksonville National Cemetery next to my father.
In October, fourteen months, and two days from the day he hired me, and while screening his phone calls, "Good morning, this is Lucas Cain's Secretary. May I help you?" "Are you, Mrs. Foster?" "Yes, Sir, I am."
"I'm John Cain, Lucas's cousin. I know this is last minute, but I'm getting married next weekend in Maine." Congratulations. I'll bring him the phone. Lucas is in the backyard splitting wood."
My love came into the kitchen an hour later, all smiles and sweaty from his workout. The ropey muscles on his muscular arms were glistening with sweat from the strenuous labor, and his soaked tee shirt clinging to and accentuating his hard chest and washboard stomach. He looked scrumptious.
The first thing Lucas said was, "John gave you the preliminary, and he will e-mail you the details; attendees are immediate family only. My Father is performing the wedding ceremony. We'll stay with him Friday thru Monday. Would you do me the honor?” Again to jump ahead, we stayed for two weeks.
"I'd be delighted, Sir," and I put my arms around his neck and kissed his lips long and deep. "Are you sure you want to kiss me now, all wet and sweaty?" I kissed his lips again and said, "Mmm, your lips are complex harmony of well-balanced flavors with hints of salty, and warm, thoughtful, and honest, with a finish that is sometimes logically annoying, in other words, not bad."
"Stop it," he protested, "you're making me blush." So I kissed him again, and he said, "You must have a new dress for the wedding. I'm ordering you to go shopping—something nice and modest so as not to upstage the bride if at all possible. Bring back several and model them for me.
I brought back three; he liked them all, but Lucas chose a corn-flower blue midi dress with flowy mid-length flutter sleeves, a slight V-neckline, elastic belt-tied waist, and a flowy hi-low skirt with a dainty ivory peach and yellow floral print for the wedding.
It was a pleasant drive with the fall colors of reds, orange, and yellow at their zenith. We took turns driving and listened to music on the way there. He seemed a bit distant, deep in thought, when he wasn't taking his turn at the wheel.
Lucas shared more about his childhood. His Father has a small schooner and took him sailing, teaching him all about sailing and everything nautical. Father and son, with the stars to guide. I also learned his Father met his Mother when the good Reverand was nineteen and a Chief Warrant Officer in the Coast guard, stationed in Portland. They married when he graduated from Seminary.
We arrived at Lucas's childhood home on Friday around four in the afternoon. The Cape Cod house, built in the 1820s, had a large back porch facing the ocean overlooking the private rocky beach. There was also a natural dropoff for the deepwater dock. He told me the house was in his Mother's family for generations; they built it and the title in his and his Father's name.
As I mentioned before, Lucas told me they did not see eye-to-eye on some things; in fact, he barely talked about him until our drive here. Before we walked to the house, he said softly, "Thank you for coming here with me, Sarah," and he squeezed my hand, "I've been away from here far too long. You love, honor and respect your parent's memory by wearing your cross.
I've disrespected my Father while he's alive, and shame on me for my pig-headed stubborn pride. Wait here; there is something I need to do. Dad and I will come back together, and I'll introduce you." That was the first time he'd ever referred to his Father as Dad.
Lucas rang the doorbell, and his Dad stepped outside and held out his hand to shake. Pastor Micah, or Pastor Mike to his parishioners, was a thirty-year-older version of Lucas, with the same build and facial features but a full head of snow-white hair.
Lucas didn't shake his Dad's hand. Instead, he hugged his Father, really hugged him, and kissed his cheek, and his Dad hugged and kissed him back. That hug lasted a while. I couldn't hear what they said to each other. Although, the surprised look on Lucas's Dad's face turning to joy was sweet and heartwarming. Their intimate moment humbled me, making me think about my parents and my love for Lucas as I touched my gold cross and chain.
They walked over to me, wiping tears from their eyes. Lucas's Dad took both my hands and said, "I don't know what to say, except welcome to our home, and thank you. The clambake will be ready by six. You both may sleep in the guest room." "No, Dad," "I'll sleep in my old room. Your house, your rules, don't make exceptions for us."
For dinner, which was delicious, we had a traditional New England Clam Bake like his Mother made for the family, and it was more than delicious. Chicken thighs, red potatoes, corn on the cob, lobster, chorizo sausage, and two heaping platters of soft shell clams. Don't forget the apple pie for dessert. Afterward, I retired early to let Lucas and his Dad be alone to catch up.
Before we entered the Church Saturday morning, Lucas took my hands and looked into my eyes. He quoted from the Song of Solomon, 'Oh my dove, in the clefts of the rock, In the secret place of the steep pathway, Let me see your form, Let me hear your voice; For your voice is sweet, and your form is lovely." I love you, Sarah.” then Lucas kissed my hands, and we walked into the Church together.
The wedding was lovely, with flowers and organ music. There was singing, and I never realized what a fine tenor voice my love has until then; he sang “Amazing Grace" honestly from the heart, with passion,” and his voice carried through the small church. I sang with him, wiping a small tear from my eye.
Early Sunday morning, when I awakened, I looked out my window and saw Lucas fishing opposite the wood schooner at the dock. It was chilly, and his Dad suggested I wear Lucas's old blue wool CPO shirt hanging in the mudroom when I went out to sit on the porch to watch him.
Shortly after, his Dad came out on the porch with two cups of steaming hot coffee to join me. "Good morning, Sarah, cream and sugar as you like." Good morning, Pastor Micah; I'll make us breakfast when Lucas is finished fishing," and he handed me my coffee, "Mike or Micah will do until you marry him, and then I hope you'll call me, Dad. Decon Arthur is giving the sermon in my place this morning. Lucas told me you attend Church every Sunday, and you teach a children’s Sunday School class. Are you a scholar of the word?"
'And we know that the Son of God is come, and hath given us an understanding, that we may know him that is true, and we are in him that is true, even in his Son Jesus Christ. This is the true God and eternal life.' "I have no formal training, just my faith. Are you testing me?"
Micah added, 'Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.'
"Testing you, no. I do not doubt your knowledge or understanding of ***********ure.
I don't believe everything is a coincidence, Sarah, but instead, I believe in small miracles when I see them. I've prayed for this day to happen, my son's return. I see God's intervention. You stood next to him when we sang in Church, our voices raised in praise. It was his mother’s favorite song. His mother taught him to sing Amazing Grace, and Lucas knew all the words when he was three.
Lucas has not fished on that dock in twenty-seven years. His Mother loved the ocean and the coastal beaches. Ruth taught him how to fish and swim, you know, or perhaps you don't? Fishing is enjoyable; however, knots, crosses, lashings are my forte; my schooner and a star to steer her by.”
"Yes, Pastor, and you're God-given calling as a fisher of men?" "Why, yes, thank you, Sarah."
"Lucas stopped fishing after Ruth died. His grief was heartbreaking; it lasted for months. Then came anger, not that he acted out or was defiant, but he was no longer the same happy, spontaneous, and gregarious little boy. Can you believe it, at nine years old, Lucas enrolled himself in a Dojo? Did he tell you that?" "No, he didn't? I replied. 'A dojo, I thought that explained much.'
"I had reservations at first, Sarah, his Senesi being a Buddist, and then I noticed a change in Lucas. He was redirecting and focusing his pent-up anger and channeling it into something positive in everything he did, including his school work. When Lucas was Seventeen, Mr' Izumi, his Senesi, confided that his student-Lucas had surpassed the teacher.
His focus and instincts are impressive”, Mr. Izumi praised. “As my sparring partner, Lucas leaves no openings; he anticipates, adapts, and counters. We finish at a standstill, and I know he's holding back out of respect. I understand Lucas made valedictorian," Mr. Izumi praised, "you must be very proud of him." I, of course, agreed with him.
Do you know we had a falling out when Lucas was eighteen? He didn't want to attend the Christian College that I planned to enroll him in as a business major.
"It's my life," he said, "my life, my choices and not yours or God's. I won't be attending college; I'll chart my voyage in life, and I sink or sail with or without divine help. I can recite passages from the Bible as well as you, perhaps better, and if he exists, how can I forgive God when denied me, my Mother."
I lost my temper while he remained calm, and stoic which made me angrier as we debated. In my anger, I struck him hard, and he let me. I know how dangerous he is. I regretted it immediately. I apologized. He wiped the blood from his mouth, unfazed and unyielding. His eyes became hard, Sarah; they were cold and distant;
I am his Father, I love him, and I was frightened of him. Lucas put his hands in his pockets and said, "I turn my other cheek to you?”
We had more words; I was calmer; he was unyielding, knowledgeable, countering every argument- annoyingly polite with a poker face, his mind made up.
"Be reasonable, Lucas I said, "We can speak of your doubts about faith another time, or if you wish, with another Minister if not me. Our savior's disciples had doubts, even after the miracles they saw with their own eyes.
You can't touch your trust fund until you turn twenty-five. What will you do? Where will you live? You are setting yourself up for failure. If you live here, it's my rules while I'm alive."
"I agree, Father, your house and your rules, and I will prove you wrong.” He left everything behind that day. Besides his savings from part-time jobs, he took a knapsack with two changes of clothes and a second pair of new work shoes, his cousin John told me after dropping Lucas off at the bus station. Lucas's substantial trust fund sits untouched, even today. I didn't hear or speak to him for two years; did he mention that?"
"No, Lucas told me you don't always see eye to eye." Yes, that is true; we didn't then. That is often the way between fathers and sons. This glorious weekend is the first time Lucas has been in Maine to see me except for a few hours, once or twice a year. We usually meet on neutral grounds, such as at a restaurant to discuss family matters, family news, or we meet at family gatherings. "Why didn't you visit him?” “I did, and the results were the same.
For those lost years, Lucas was reserved, respectful, and polite. He met his obligations, yet, I didn't know his mind; he didn't share his feelings. Lucas mailed me a yearly check for taxes and upkeep on the property. After every visit, I found fresh flowers on Ruth's grave. Our meetings began and ended with a handshake. After you retired early, thank you, my boy, and I talked far into the night, cleared the air, and laughed as we shared our feelings.
Friday was the first time Lucas hugged or kissed me in eighteen years, called me Dad, or told me he loved me. It is a new beginning for us. Lucas loves you, you know, Sarah. I can see it in his eyes by the way he looks at you. I witnessed you two together before you walked into the Church the day of the wedding; many in the family did.
I know you love him. He's never brought a lady friend to our family gathering before and never here. He invited me to his home for Thanksgiving and Christmas. We compromised; Christmas Eve and Christmas will be here.”
"Look," I pointed, standing, "what is he doing? And as we watched, Lucas stripped off his clothes to his briefs and dove off the dock into the cold ocean. He then swam a few laps, and when he climbed out, Lucas raised his arms in the air while turning in a circle, and he was laughing.