Blindfolded Innocence

  I raised my hands. “Okay, it was just an idea. Obviously not a good one.”

  He had taken a set of shorts out of the stack, and handed them to me. “These are the smallest I’ve got. They have a drawstring, so you can probably tighten them to a point where they won’t slide off. They’ll look ridiculous, but I won’t tell anyone.”

  I pulled the shorts on and jumped off the counter, yanking them the rest of the way up. I cinched the string as tight as I could and tied it.

  “So, you gonna feed me, or should I pick up fast food on my way home?”

  He grabbed me in response, lifting me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and I giggled as he jogged down the stairs and into the frigid lower level. He deposited me on the kitchen counter and headed to the fridge.

  His kitchen was built with three materials—stone, granite and stainless steel. It was commercial grade, though I was pretty sure cooking wasn’t in his skill set. As if he was reading my mind, he spoke from behind the open refrigerator door.

  “I don’t cook, but Martha always leaves more than enough food. Let’s see...we got chicken and rice, vegetable soup and meat loaf. Any of those sound good to you?”

  “They all sound great. I’ll take some chicken and rice if there’s enough.”

  He pulled an armful of Tupperware containers out, stacking them on the counter. I could see the meals he mentioned, plus a few vegetables and a salad. One container looked like it held banana pudding. My stomach growled.

  We ate at a huge teak table in the kitchen, on paper plates and with disposable silverware.

  “You and Martha typically eat together?”

  “No. She likes her space.”

  I raised a brow. “Antisocial?”

  “Sort of. She’s like the grouchy neighbor everyone stays away from. We have an understanding. I stay away from her, and she keeps the house running and the fridge full. She respects my privacy, and I respect hers.”

  “Sounds a little cold.”

  He looked up at me while waiting on his soup to cool. “A lot of people are overly interested in my activities. It’s nice to have someone who keeps their distance.”

  I toyed with a piece of broccoli. “So, about your activities...I have some questions.”

  “Shoot.”

  “What would happen? I mean, explain the scenario that would occur.”

  “That would all depend on you. The purpose of the meeting is for your pleasure. What are some things that turn you on?”

  “You know, normal stuff.”

  “Normal stuff?”

  “Yeah.”

  He sighed, taking my hand. “Julia, we’re kind of doing this backward from a normal flow. Typically, we would grow in our relationship until we are at the point where you would be comfortable sharing your fantasies with me, no matter how sick or slutty or dirty you may think they are. Then we would find a way to play out those fantasies, together. I want you to know that you don’t have to do any...activities...right now. We can have a normal, typical relationship until we build the level of intimacy where you can share those fantasies. Then we can act on them. I went ahead and told you about my participation in this lifestyle, about my need for you to be involved, because I didn’t want to sideswipe you with it later on in the relationship. I wanted to bring it up now, in case it was a deal breaker for you. I don’t want to waste your time, or mine. But we don’t have to do this now. We can try it later, when you’re ready.”

  “And I want to find out now if this is something that I would not be okay with. So I won’t waste my time or yours if it is something that I can’t handle.”

  “Understood.”

  “So, going off of the understanding that I am turned on by basic vanilla stuff, how would the scenario play out?”

  He spoke carefully, not taking his eyes off me, as if walking through a minefield. “There are a few ways this can play out. We can either go to a club and pick a partner, or you can describe to me what you want, and I can give you a selection to choose from—their applications, if you will. Then I would bring that person to you.”

  “What would happen once they were here?”

  He shrugged. “Whatever you’re comfortable with. I would suggest we stick with heavy petting or oral as an expectation. If you want to take it further than that, you can take it as far as you want. I would expect, given how sexual you are, that you would get into the experience once it begins. I would also suggest we set a time limit for your first time, like fifteen minutes. After fifteen minutes, I would get us alone and ask you if you want to stop. The goal is to make sure that you’re comfortable with the entire experience, that nothing occurs that you don’t want. You would be in control until you’re ready to turn that over to me.”

  I had tilted my head to the side, listening to his words and trying to envision the meeting. It sounded...fine. Given the slutty thoughts that had just partied relentlessly in my head, more than fine. Not anything I couldn’t handle. I looked up into his expectant eyes and nodded. “Okay. I’m okay with that.”

  We cleared the table and did the few dishes in comfortable silence. Apparently Martha had trained Brad well. He seemed diligent about following her rules, a fact I found funny since he seemed to break every other rule. As I dried a glass, a sudden thought popped in my head, and I started to laugh.

  “What?”

  “What was up with that elevator? The alarm, lights, sprinklers?”

  “Sorry—I had a hand in the building’s renovation a few years back. I pretty much used the philosophy ‘go big or go home’ with most of the building’s overhaul, including the new elevator system.”

  “You knew that would happen?!”

  “No!” He started laughing. “I didn’t read the damn manual. I just told them to get every option available. In retrospect, it might have been a slight waste of corporate dollars.”

  “Well, at least I know never to pull a fire alarm in the building.”

  He grinned and handed me a bowl to dry.

  * * *

  At 10:00 p.m., Brad walked me to my car. The moon was out; frogs were everywhere and croaking. Other than that, the road was silent, lights off in the surrounding homes. He’d invited me to stay the night, but I’d declined. I needed my own bed and some alone time to think.

  We stood by my car, his hands in his pockets. I was still wearing his gym shorts and enormous T-shirt, my dress clothes in a plastic bag hanging from my hand. I started to unlock the door and stopped, turning to him.

  “What happened with Broward’s wife?” I need to know.

  He sighed heavily, looking contrite. “I don’t have any big, fancy excuse. There is absolutely no justification for what happened. We were on a corporate retreat in Aspen. I was down at the bar, drinking, and Claire showed up. She and Broward had had a fight about something, and she was pissed, downing drinks faster than me. As time passed, she got less pissed at Kent, and more friendly to me. I should have said no, or called Kent, or done anything other than what I did.”

  “Had sex.”

  “Yeah. Had sex. We went to my room. It was over fast. I didn’t even finish. We both knew it was a mistake and stopped. She went back to her room, immediately told Kent.”

  “I didn’t know you guys had corporate retreats.”

  “We don’t anymore.”

  Right. Of course. “What happened after that?”

  “The next morning, Broward had a meeting with Clarke. Told him what happened. Said he wanted me gone. Clarke disagreed, told Broward if he wanted me gone, he’d have to buy me out himself. Broward didn’t have the capital.”

  “So you stayed.”

  He nodded, his face grim. “So I stayed. I know Broward hates me, and I don’t blame him for that, but the firm is my home, too. I’m not leaving unless I’m pushed out, and
I don’t respond well to being pushed.”

  “Shocker.”

  “Hey, go easy on me. It’s been a long day.” He moved close to me, pinning me against the car. He bent down and gave me a long, deep kiss, squeezing my waist. I threw my hands around his neck, kissing back and tugging on his coarse hair gently.

  “It has been a long day, Mr. De Luca.” I pushed him off me gently and opened my car door, getting in. He stepped away and watched me, waiting until I backed out before he turned and headed into the house.

  God, I am a glutton for punishment.

  Thirty-One

  I knew the girls would judge my decision harshly, but I needed to talk to someone, so I invited Alex, one of my roommates, to a late fast-food run. Alex had grown up the son of hippies; his parents had taken the concept of free love to heart. Alex often wandered naked through the house, and I saw him date men and women, young and old. I knew I could freely discuss just about anything short of bestiality with him and wouldn’t be judged. I called him on my way home. At the first mention of a free Whopper combo, he was game, and he was standing outside by the time I pulled up.

  “Nice outfit, Jules,” he said, crawling into my passenger seat. Alex was a six-foot-tall blond who probably would have been attractive if it weren’t for the shoulder-length dreads piled high atop his head.

  “Thanks,” I said, not bothering to explain the attire. I pulled out of our driveway and headed for Burger King. We rode in companionable silence as I tried to organize my thoughts.

  “How’s your new job?” Alex asked, scrolling through my radio stations.

  “It’s good. Complicated. How’s Julian?” Julian was Alex’s current hookup partner, a tattooed pothead who didn’t believe in bathing regularly or shaving.

  “She’s good. I don’t know how long we’re gonna last. She’s starting to get all bitchy on me, nagging me about stuff.” I tried to look interested, but I was shocked they had lasted as long as they had.

  He finally found a station and leaned back in his seat. “How’s your love life? Luke still being all stalker on your ass?”

  “I haven’t heard from him in a while. I changed my cell and he still hasn’t found out where I live, so I think I’m in the clear.”

  “Who you dating now? You went to Vegas with some guy, right?”

  “Yeah. I wanted to get your advice on that, actually. The guy I’m kinda seeing...he’s into like, threesomes and stuff.”

  “And you’re not....”

  “I don’t know. He’s asking me to try it and I told him I would. One time.” The words were out of my mouth and I cringed, suddenly wishing I could take them back.

  “Good.” Alex nodded. “Good for you, Jules.”

  “Really?” I risked a glance at him, putting my turn signal on and preparing to turn into BK. He was tapping his knee with a finger and looking out the window, his face unreadable.

  “Shit, yeah. Why wouldn’t you? You want to have plain, boring sex the rest of your life? Everything gets old after a while, Jules, everything. You need to try stuff like this now while you’re young and unattached. Experience everything, just to see what you like. You’ve got the rest of your life to be boring.”

  “I guess. It just seems so...wrong.”

  “That’s because society says we should all be monogamous and have missionary sex three times a week,” Alex drawled in a monotone voice. “You got to say ‘F you’ to society, Jules, and do what floats your boat.”

  The car in front of us in the drive-through moved up and I ordered a Whopper combo with a Coke for Alex. I added a medium strawberry shake for myself.

  * * *

  “Have you ever had a threesome?” I asked. We were now parked in the restaurant’s parking lot. Alex had his food, and was noisily sucking on the straw in his Coke.

  “Yeah. A couple.” He stuffed a few ketchup-laden fries into his mouth.

  “Did you like it?”

  “One experience was really hot—one wasn’t. A lot depends on who you do it with—kind of like sex. You know, like how you can have missionary sex with two girls and one is fucking hot and you come in two minutes, and the other one you fall asleep during?”

  “Well, I’ve never fucked a girl missionary-style, but yes, I understand your point.”

  “So when are you doing it?”

  “I don’t know. Anytime, I guess. I don’t really have any reason to wait. I’m kind of using this experience to decide if I want to date the guy.”

  “Like a test?”

  “Like a qualifier.”

  Alex shook his head. “Man, I don’t understand women.”

  This coming from the guy who was eating postnooky breakfast with a sixty-year-old woman last Monday.

  I shook my head with a smile and started the car, heading home.

  * * *

  Friday, Broward returned. I rode up the elevator, noticing brand-new carpet beneath my feet, nervous about seeing him. I felt that something had changed between us since he’d told me about his wife, but that might have been me feeling paranoid because of my actions with Brad. The wing buzzed with activity all day, everyone working on the normal workload plus the documents related to the mediation settlement. Brad called my office around 3:00 p.m. I smiled when I saw his extension show up on my phone.

  “Yes?” I said coyly.

  “Got dinner plans?”

  “No, but I don’t plan on doing anything more with you until I can make a decision about us.”

  “You mean you want to skip the cheap talk and go straight to the threesome?”

  “Theoretically speaking,” I said.

  “Well, I need to find out what you want so I can set it up. We can either do that over the office phone lines or you can bear the pleasure of my company for some brief time....”

  I thought for a minute. “Fine. How about breakfast at your house this Monday? Then we’ll do the dirty deed on Saturday night.”

  “Why Monday? Why not Saturday or Sunday?”

  “No. I want my weekend. Plus,” I added wickedly, “I want to meet Martha.”

  * * *

  The weekend passed quickly, mostly due to an MTV Real World marathon, during which I watched the entire season of The Real World: Hawaii and ate about nine bags of butter popcorn and three DiGiorno pizzas.

  Monday morning I rang Brad’s doorbell at 6:30 a.m. I was dressed in a gray knee-length pencil skirt and black sleeveless sweater. I had black pumps on, cute but not too sexy. The door was answered by an African-American woman in her fifties, my height, but about two hundred and fifty pounds. The woman was dressed in a faded red shirt, jeans and white tennis shoes. She crossed her hands over her huge breasts and made a show of looking me up and down, blocking the doorway.

  I gave her my friendliest smile. “Good morning. You must be Martha.”

  “Uh-huh.” She lifted her chin slightly, then twisted a bit, calling over her shoulder while she kept her wide body blocking the doorway. “Bradley! That girl is here for breakfast!” She turned back to me, her face unmoving, holding her bodyguard pose till Brad appeared over her shoulder. He patted her and she moved, begrudgingly, taking a few steps back and continuing to stare at me. Talk about the gestapo.

  I stepped inside and offered my hand to her. “I’m Julia.” She looked at my outstretched hand as if it was a piece of diseased meat. Finally, with Brad staring at her, she shook my hand, her grip loose and uninterested.

  “Nice to meet ya,” she muttered, then turned and waddled into the kitchen.

  Brad smiled at me, stepping forward and giving me a quick kiss. “Brace yourself,” he whispered in my ear.

  We sat at the island counter, Martha on the other side of us, loudly banging pots and pans and doing a lot of muttering under her breath. From my seat next to Brad I could smell the
soap from his shower, and see a small nick where he’d cut himself shaving. Martha said something that included my name and turned to look at me.

  “I’m sorry, what was the question?”

  “Your eggs. How do you want them?” she barked, giving me a strong look that indicated what she thought of my intelligence level.

  “Scrambled, please.” I shot Brad a dismayed look and he tried to hide a grin under his hand. I poked him under the counter.

  Martha served us at the counter. She had prepared eggs, bacon, grits and biscuits. The woman might have been a tad prickly, but she could cook. I dug in.

  “I’m going upstairs. I’ll let you two eat and be back down after you leave for work. Just scrape the plates and put them in the sink.”

  “Will do. Thank you, Martha,” Brad said, spreading grape jelly on a biscuit.

  I smiled and waved goodbye to her. “The food is delicious.”

  She glared at me. “Thank you, miss.” Ripping her apron from around her neck, she hung it on a hook by the door and left, the screen door closing with a loud smack behind her.

  Brad and I looked at each other, then burst out laughing. “I told you,” he said, starting to choke on his bite of biscuit. “Part of that is irritation that I asked her to come in early—to accommodate your ridiculous need to arrive at the office by seven-thirty. She doesn’t like to conform to anyone else’s schedule.”

  “And you pay her? Is it just me or is she like that with all of your women?”

  “She’s like that with any woman, though she’s only met a few. Most of the time I try to keep them away from her.”

  “I can see why!” I took a big gulp of milk and fanned myself, trying to clear her hostility from the air.

  “Okay, getting down to business,” Brad said, scooping up a pile of eggs. “Have you decided what you want to do on Saturday?”

  I blushed, and focused on my breakfast plate. “Are we sure Martha’s gone?”

  Brad raised himself off his stool and leaned over till he could see through the double window above the sink. “Yeah. I can see her sitting on her balcony.”