Adventure of the Incidental Ogle

"Dinner?" I asked. This was taking a twist I hadn't expected. I figured a nice thanks for the day would be about it. Now she was inviting me to dinner?

"Yes, dinner," she iterated, teasing. "You know... the evening meal? Served around 6pm at my place? I'm sure you have the address, since you sent the flowers. You did send the flowers, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did," I admitted. "It seemed like a good way to say thanks for the entertainment."

"Oh, it was... it was," she told me. "Long story, which you may hear someday. Shall we say tomorrow night? So you can work on your dollhouse tonight."

"That's very considerate," I nodded with a slight smile. "My granddaughter will appreciate it."

"In which case," she told me, standing up, "would you care to walk me to my car? I parked down in the main lot today."

"I'd be happy to," I smiled.

"Good. You can carry the cooler," she decided. I'm not sure I'd classify it as a setup, exactly...

Lawrence Richards was a well-known real estate mogul in the area, and had maintained a philanthropic public face which endeared him to quite a few charities. He had also amassed an impressive stock portfolio, and apparently a heavy interest in overseas investments because he'd been known to take extended trips to Europe, Africa and South America. His taste in mansions and trophy wives wasn't lacking, either.

After he'd died from a sudden and unexpected heart attack, the much younger Anne -- thirty at the time, I had heard -- had been bombarded by suitors eager to cash in on the sizable estate. She wasn't having any of it. She became a partial recluse and was never seen in public in the company of a man. Even her chauffer was a woman. Mostly, she traveled solo. She couldn't have advertised "I'm Not Interested!" any better if she'd hired a skywriter and taken out infomercial time on all the local cable channels.

So seeing her walking down the beach with me turned a helluva lot of heads. Like Anne, I'm a sort of fixture, a part of the scenery, but well-known to only a small group of friends. The general populace doesn't know who I am, nor do they care and I like it like that. They knew who she was, though, and I could feel the tongues starting to wag. I tried to politely ignore the staring and comments.

When we reached her car -- a very practical Audi Q7 -- she popped the back hatch for me and I put the cooler in. She stepped up to me as I was closing the lid.

"Thank you, kind sir," she told me with a not-so-quick peck on my cheek. "I look forward to dinner." I'm sure I was looking shocked as she slid into the driver's seat and started the car.

"A girl has to do something to keep the people talking," she told me as she was backing out. "I'd hate to become irrelevant." With a smile and a wave, she took off and I stood there feeling the touch of her lips on my cheek. A very large part of me wanted to get to know that woman a whole lot better.

* * * * *

I did spend the night working on the dollhouse, and most of the next day. I was close to finishing it and wanted to keep up the momentum. About noon I sent a text to the phone number Anne had given me, asking about dress for the evening. "Casual... be comfortable" is what I got back. I also spent some time on Google Maps.

Her place is farther up the lakeshore from mine, and sits on a pretty large chunk of land. Almost 100 acres from what I could estimate. The main house was situated near the shore, as mine was, with a number of outbuildings. I could guess that at least one of them was a barn with paddocks around it. There was also a swimming pool and tennis court, and what was probably a putting green. Lawrence Richards had known how to live in style. And now it was Anne's.

I knocked off and cleaned up in plenty of time to be at the gated entrance to her estate by 5:55pm. Dockers and a dress shirt would do, I'd decided. Now I was waiting for the tinny voice in the box to let me in.

The gate lurched into motion, sliding sideways, until I had enough clearance to drive through. I followed the road to the house, where I pulled around the plaza with the fountain and stopped near what I presumed were the front doors. Richards must have given his architect fits, because the house was a mishmash of everything from Neoclassical to Prairie School. And the inside turned out to add Rococo and a few others. Living there would have driven me nuts.

As soon as I pulled up, an attractive young woman in a sort of grey jumpsuit approached me.

"May I park your car, Mr. Stevens?" she asked pleasantly, and I figured she must be the hired help. I usually don't trust valets, but here I figured why not? The car was out of my control once I went inside, anyway. I got out and gave her the keys.

"Through those doors, Mr. Stevens," she told me, pointing to the double doors I'd figured were the front entrance. "Someone will assist you." I turned and walked to the house as she was getting in my car, and right into the main front foyer, designed to impress by opulence. To me, it just looked chaotic. I was looking at some of the fancy filigree when the second of the servantry appeared, this time in the form of another young woman, with long blonde hair, whereas the car jockey had been a brunette.

She had on the same grey jumpsuit, though, which I figured must be the uniform of the staff.

"Please follow me, Mr. Stevens," she greeted me. She waited to be sure I was going to follow her, then began leading me through the house. By the time we got to the veranda, I was convinced Richards had been schizophrenic. I counted no less than five different styles of architecture and interior decorating, none particularly compatible with each other. The servant opened a set of double doors leading out onto the balcony and stood aside.

I nodded to her and said thanks, then walked on out. The view was stunning. Because the land fell away towards the shore, I was standing on what was essentially a third-floor deck, covered in the fashion of the open-air long galleries in New Orleans. To my left, the veranda extended to the end of the house, with a number of pieces of occasional furniture, mostly tables and chairs with a few couches, obviously intended for relaxing and quiet conversation. Ahead was a wonderful view of the lake, with coniferous and birch forest framing the view. And to my right was a long dining table, set with linens and fine china, and my hostess standing at the end.

"Mr. Stevens," she acknowledged after giving me a chance to take in the scenery. "I am glad you came. Please join me." I did.

I noted that she was wearing a long cloak, covering her to her neck, and she had her red mane up in a Gibson Girl style bun. Rather odd for a casual dinner, I thought. If she's trying to impress me, she already did, back on the beach.

As I got to the table, I noted two places set, one at the head and one to the right side of it.

"Please, sit," she asked me, indicating the place at the head. That, also, confused me. The head would have normally been reserved for the host or hostess. I did as she asked, though, and stood next to the chair, waiting for her. Simple manners. I was still standing when one of her servants arrived to help her off with the cloak.

I should have been sitting.

Beneath the cloak, her sole item of clothing was a very fancy, Egyptian-style necklace with four chains coming off of it... one to each nipple and two to her groin. I swallowed hard.

She stood there in her very radiant beauty and waited. I took the hint. I sat.

Almost immediately a servant appeared to assist her to sit, and the appetizer course arrived. It took about three seconds to figure out she intended to do a lot more than impress me. She was ensorcelling me. I was already stunned by her beauty. Now she was on to the seven-course meal.

"I hope you enjoy our menu, good sir," she told me. "It is seldom that I have the opportunity to entertain a man of my own choosing. Particularly one with intelligence, humor and a... je ne sais quoi. Virilité, perhaps?"

My God, I'm being hunted, I thought. Let's see what kind of manners I can remember.

The Appetizer was a shrimp cocktail with Sauvignon blanc. And conversation was about the dollhouse. I forced myself to keep my eyes on hers and not on her magnificent chest.

The Soup was chicken and wild rice with a medium dry Riesling, and conversation was about my hobbies, in general, and my interest in sailing in particular. I was picking up subtle clues about her likes and dislikes during our talking, and was making copious mental notes for later.

The Salad was a small fruit and cheese salad with plain old sparkling water. Conversation was about my love of scuba diving... what kind, where, which wrecks, most memorable and so forth. I found out she liked to dive the Bahamas and Tahiti. That got filed for future reference, too.

The Palate Cleanser was a lime sorbet with Moscato d'Asti... an interesting combination I'd never had before. I realized I needed to slow down on the wine a bit. My thoughts were turning most impure. I gleaned from her that she liked parasailing and hang gliding. The only time I voluntarily jumped out of a perfectly good airplane was when I was being paid to do it. Same for cliffs or being dragged behind a boat.

The Fish course was Orange Roughy with a nice Chablis. She directed the conversation back to me and we discussed my love of things mechanical, like cars, and making things -- my woodworking, metal-smithing and other creative pursuits. I was getting hard thinking about my three loves... sex, guns and making things. And her mode of dress was getting harder and harder to ignore, especially when she would lean forward to make a point, or sit back with an excited smile on her lips and in her eyes.

The Meat course just about did me in. Tender venison Backstraps with a down-home Maple-Bourbon gravy, garlic mashed potatoes & steamed veggies, served with a Pinot Noir. I was surprised at the venison until two things occurred to me. The first was that she was probing my boundaries, seeing if I had an objection to eating Bambi. The second was that it was her lead in to discussing my passion for hunting and fishing. It turned out she was an avid hunter and angler herself. Not for the last time, I started wondering if I was falling in love with this perfect woman.

Or at least falling in Lust. Major lust. Major, you'd-better-get-it-under-control lust.

Dessert arrived and she put the capstone on Perfect. A Black Forest Torte served with Aussie Shiraz. And an open ended question about my other passions.

"So, Mr. Stevens," she asked. "Are there other interests of yours that I've missed? You do realize, I want to know all about you." She had been addressing me as Mr. Stevens throughout the entire meal.

"Well, Mrs. Richards," I answered, also playing at staying with the surnames, "I can only think of two more, and one is probably unfit for dinner conversation. The other is music."

"Music? Truly? Pray tell, what kind, Mr. Stevens?" she smiled. "I will admit, I would have a hard time guessing what might interest you."

"Everything except rap and the screaming stuff, like heavy metal, punk rock or industrial," I told her. "Other than that, I love everything from Bach to the Beatles, Vivaldi to the Ventures, Prokofiev to Pink Floyd. I have certain favorites, like Hayden, Mussorgsky, Tchaikovsky and similar classical composers. But I also love Dire Straits, Eagles, Jackson Brown and Cream. So pretty much, take your pick."

I could have sworn I saw her eyes dilate as I rattled off the music I like. And maybe even saw her nostrils flare. Music might be a way to this woman's... um... heart.

"So, Mr. Stevens," she eyed me coyly. "Shall I guess at the taboo subject?" I didn't miss her eagerness.

"I don't think there'd be much guessing involved, Mrs. Richards," I told her. "I'm fairly certain you know."

"So, Mr. Stevens," she smiled. "What kind of sex do you like?"

"Well, you see..." I hesitated. "That's a lot easier to explain by demonstrating than by talking about it. I don't consider myself much of a talker in that regard. I'm more of a doer."

"My thoughts exactly," she said softly, then arose. So I did, too, right with her. "Will you take in the sunset with me, Mr. Stevens?"

"I would be delighted," I told her, wondering what the hell was going on. But she didn't give me long to wonder because she held out her hand to me and I reflexively took it. She gently steered me in the direction of a couch down at the other end of the porch while her servants quickly and efficiently made dinner disappear, and then they did, too.

She stopped in front of the couch and then waited. I went to assist her to sit but she just shifted a bit to let me know she expected me to sit first. So I shrugged and did. She knelt beside my legs in a very servile attitude and continued her head game, whatever it was, that put her in the subordinate role and me in the dominant one, whether I wanted it or not. I kept my mouth shut and looked out over the water.

She was messing with my mind and doing a damned good job of it. She was my hostess and this was her house and her servantry, and yet she was treating me as if she were my slave. And provocatively dressed, or undressed, to play the part. Her beauty was only enhanced by the jewelry-and-nothing-else she was wearing. I was sporting a permanent erection, barely hidden by my trousers, and which was being politely ignored by the cause of it.

So here I was, sitting very comfortably on the veranda, taking in a rather spectacular sunset in deep reds, pinks, oranges and yellows, with my servant at my feet and... that's when the mint julep appeared in my hand, courtesy of one of the mostly invisible staff. Something in me just couldn't accept it. Nor leave it alone.

"Anne..." I started, intentionally using her given name and resting my hand on her shoulder. She turned from her kneeling position to look up at me and my guts started twisting in knots. This was so fucking hot, and so taboo to my way of thinking. I needed to stay focused.

"Yes?" she asked, her eyes wide and those brilliant blue crystals boring their way into my soul.

"Anne, I am one very confused man," I told her. She just continued to look up at me expectantly.

"Dinner was great," I made myself go on and not get lost in her eyes. "And I love talking with you. There's a lot more to you that the façade of a trophy wife would show. I really hope we'll see each other more often. But... I don't get the servant routine. Don't get me wrong, that outfit you're wearing is amazing. And incredibly exciting. Maybe too much so. In any case, you aren't my servant, and even if you were, I'm really uncomfortable with it. With the civil war going on in my brain between the civilized guy who tries to respect women appropriately and the primitive knuckle-dragger who thinks owning and using you for my own pleasure is a wonderful idea. So can you tell me, what's going on?"

She didn't answer my question. She asked one of her own.

"Would you like to own me, and use me for your own pleasure?" The knots in my guts started getting knots.

"Part of me would, yes," I answered honestly. "But that's not the part I allow to have control. I'd really like us to be on an even keel. You know... keep parity between us. You're way out of my league and you know it. But that doesn't have to fuck up a friendship. Pardon my French."

She cocked her head and looked at me for several moments, with no discernible expression. Then she finally responded.

"I am not out of your league, Jack," she told me and I was relieved she'd dropped the formal Mr. Stevens. "Would you like to know why I chose this attire for this evening?"

I sure as hell did! A simple "yes" would suffice, though, and did.

"This is the way Lawrence preferred to have dinner," she explained and I'll admit it surprised me. "I wanted to see how you would react to it."

"He wanted you to be his slave?" I know I sounded incredulous.

"Essentially, yes," she smiled slightly. "In bed and out. He liked to use me as his 'closer'... he'd line up a deal with a client, and the client got to fuck me as part of signing on the dotted line. I like sex, Mr. Stevens, and most of his clients were a fun tumble. A few were more work than play. Rough was Lawrence's purview, though. His staff were all males, and they were rude, crude and obnoxious, and Lawrence didn't appear to give a shit. I only dressed like this for Lawrence, but that didn't stop the catcalling and comments, figuring I was just a glorified whore. Which is the first change I made after he died. I fired the lot of them and replaced them all with women who would respect me. I kept one man on board until I could complete the transition, and that was Lawrence's Chief of Security. He had actually been nice to me and I felt I could trust him to help me."

"Wow, is that fucked up," I mused. I'm not sure whether I meant to say it out loud.

"I thought so, too," she answered and I realized I'd actually said it. "However..." Her eyes took on a kind of brilliance I found fascinating. "It has been incredibly fun to see how this role can give me power over a man. Specifically you. You are the first man to be invited to this house, or to see me as I am dressed, since Lawrence died. You, Jack, intrigue me that much."

I consider myself fairly sophisticated. Or at least, I can be when the situation requires "unflappable." But I was currently very flapped. Her game had gotten to me and she had me mesmerized, and I needed to get some control back, so I could at least be a gentleman.

"May I join you on the couch, Sir?" she asked.

"Um, sure, why not?" I managed to answer. "It's your house. You can do whatever you want. Why would you even ask?"

"Because I'm enjoying the role-play," she smiled, slowly standing up and damn near making my cock rip my britches. Standing over me, wearing nothing but the jewelry, she was beyond awesome. And regardless of her opinion, she was way out of my league. She moved to sit down beside me.

I made sure to make some room and she took my hand as she sat, then kept up the surprises by curling her feet up onto the couch and leaning her head into my shoulder, keeping hold of my hand.

I decided to risk it. "If you don't mind my asking," I eased into it, "how did you get hooked up with such a POS, anyway?"

She gave me a wry smile before answering.

"I met Lawrence very soon after I left the Service," she told me. "He courted me with a globetrotting whirlwind seduction, carefully hiding the darker side of things until after we were married. I was still fairly young and naïve, a swept away by the lifestyle. It didn't take long after we were married to figure out what my role was supposed to be. At that point, I was committed. I take vows seriously, including marital ones, Jack. I was resigned to the long haul. Then his heart did me a huge favor. And now...

"I haven't felt this comfortable, or excited, in a very long time," she told me as she nestled into me. "I've been missing sex with a man... kind of easing my way back into the water. I like you a lot. You intrigue and attract me. I'd like to know a lot more about you."

I took a long pull on my mint julep. I was going to need the bourbon's assistance.

"All you have to do is ask," I told her. "I don't think I have any deep, dark secrets to keep from you. I know you were Special Forces, so I know you understand Classified. Outside that, what would you like to know?" I took another pull on my drink.

"Would you like to fuck?"

I damn near choked. So much for my sophistication. "Um..." was my less than elegant response.