Page 28 of Miss Elizabeth's Captive

Chapter Twenty One

With the hormonal buildup as a result of being kept forcibly chaste, events seemed to cause my life to become more of a roller coaster ride. Good things became fantastic. Bad things became tragic.

I received a notice that my apartment building had been purchased. Though I had rent control, my contract was up for renewal and the notice specified that the new owners were converting to condominiums. For a mere $900,000 I could buy my abode. If not, I had six months to move out.

I had not the money for the purchase. Even the cost of moving would be a strain. More turmoil.

Then, the following week, I received a call from the secretary of Ms. Grace Hobson, director of personnel. I was summoned to her office.

Normally the middle-aged harridan only dealt with administrative staff. Ranking investment bankers interacted with the executive committee on matters of personnel. I was to find out that had changed.

As the elevator took me to the 35th floor, the very number, lit up above elevator the door, brought consternation. Visions of that videotape, neatly sealed, addressed and ready for mailing, haunted me. As stated, the abundant hormones seemed to cause wide mood swings.

To console myself, to place me in the proper frame of mind for meeting with Ms. Hobson, I forced myself to think about how Jamie’s soft fingers and fine wet tongue would sooth my scrotum and neglected testicles on my next visit to Miss Elizabeth’s penthouse. My homophobia, at least when it came to recreating with Jamie and his fine body, had dissipated. And so as I entered the suite of offices for MacDonald, Bear’s esteemed Director of Personnel, Little Sam was pressing against his cage with my thoughts.

Ms. Hobson’s effeminate male secretary greeted me. That alone made a statement about the woman who ruled the secretaries and clerical staff with an iron hand. Grace Hobson was a no-nonsense administrator who made things work. And though disliked by many at my level, who technically outranked her, no one ever dared to trifle with her fiefdom. To do so could cause irritation perhaps even havoc at various levels within the firm. And then the ultimate powers would end that havoc ... and in so doing no

one cared to prognosticate whose ox would be gored. Thus everyone let the overbearing, physically imposing woman do her job.

Ms. Hobson’s office was larger than mine and more opulently decorated, a tribute to her influence and ability to infight. I had never paid much attention to such matters, choosing instead to concentrate on the size of the upcoming bonus, which of late had been penurious. Success is as one measures it.

I was ushered in by the humble secretary. Grace Hobson demanded coffee of the truckling young male. She did not offer any to me.

She began without any courteous exchange. Abrupt, straight to the point, her demeanor suggested that she was busy with important matters. I always wondered about people who project such an aura, whether there was in fact importance or the facade was a mere subterfuge.

“No deals closed recently, Mr. Winthrop. Anything on the horizon?”

Her tone was haughty. Her question sarcastically intoned. These were inquiries, much more genteelly phrased, normally asked by the head of the Investment Banking Department.

Though I seethed, I ignored her provocation. “Things are slow. The immediate horizon is limited. But such is better discussed with Winston.”

Normally invoking Winston’s name, the very powerful head of Investment Banking, gained one a degree of shelter from interdepartmental jousting. Winston had his own fiefdom and my fellow investment bankers and I considered ourselves like cubs with our vaunted mother bear Winston protective of all.

“Winston resigned yesterday. It seems he accepted a rather lucrative offer from a Middle Eastern financial firm. I’m told he received a guaranteed retirement package that will eliminate the normal vagaries of Wall Street employment.”

I was shocked, but I was indeed familiar with the vagaries of Wall Street.

“So, Mr. Winthrop. Anything on the horizon? I’m afraid I’ve been assigned the task of trying to pick up the pieces of his department. And I’m beginning to understand Winston’s inclination to jump ship.”

Well reader, the remainder of the conversation did not get any better. Grace Hobson’s iron fist was gripping my throat, explaining how the firm’s overhead was subsidizing my performance, or lack thereof, and quoting the substantial costs of rent, heat, light, telephone, and secretarial services with amazing precision.

“I think you need better supervision, Mr. Winthrop.” The woman stood and thrust back massive shoulders, which effortlessly bore the burden of huge mammary glands. She strolled to a door, opened it and gestured.

“Your new office.”

It was merely a cubicle … no windows and with the only egress being Grave Hobson’s capacious suite. And then, as she laughed at my shocked reaction in peering at the tiny new office of Samuel L. Winthrop, III, Ivy League MBA, something struck me. It was the throaty laugh, one which I heard at Miss Elizabeth’s dinner parties. The laugh that was spurred by my suspended nakedness, my plugged rectum and a standing Little Sam. The laugh that accompanied the exploring fingers and the determined squeezes of the inflatable plug.

I lost it. I went into a funk. Did she know it was I hanging hooded in such ignominy in Miss Elizabeth’s penthouse? I was speechless.

Her persona would indeed fit the mold of a woman who would so much enjoy making a man squirm, as evidenced by the joy she took in showing me my new office.

“Be in early tomorrow, Mr. Winthrop. I take coffee at 8:30. Make it black with sugar. And we’ll need to talk about those stock loans. Your next bonus, if you receive one at all, isn’t going to cover the next principal payment. But I’m sure we can work something out.”

Again the throaty laugh as I turned to stagger to the door.

But then my question, the one concerning her ability to identify the naked form so obsequiously hanging plugged and erect, was answered. As Grace Hobson’s sizable frame moved to return to her desk, we brushed up against each other, ostensibly in one of those encounters where we both stepped in the same direction simultaneously. Our torsos met, but a quick hand goosed the hard plastic under my zipper, feeling for just an instant the cage entrapping Little Sam. And whereas most women would be dumbfounded in encountering such a quirky device, Ms. Hobson’s brief copping feel brought an evil smile and more laughter, thereby closing the door on any doubts I had about her identity.

As I reached for the door handle, her laughter became irritatingly uproarious.

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