Andrea’s Afternoon Munch

In the throes of pleasuring myself, the door opened. The towering Hispanic male who entered found me–legs spread, fingers flying–hidden behind a scarred oak desk in the windowless closet known at Whitney, Hiller, Morton, Bravetheart, & Crumm as the Dead File Room.

“Andrea Morton?”

“Yes…,” I moaned, left hand still strumming. I was… so…close….

“You’re Andrea Morton…?”  I’m four feet seven inches tall with freckles.

“Ohhhhhhh!”

My breathing slowed.  I buttoned my blouse, straightened the skirt, and righted my wire-rimmed glasses. “I thought I locked the door.”

“You did.”

“My pathologically paranoid uncle has the only other key.”

“I asked to borrow it.” The stranger had a rugged face and, lanky, cattle-rustler body.

“I don’t usually….Never mind. I’ll pack up my things.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I’m fired….” Three days remained in my summer internship before I returned to Vermillion for my final year at the South Dakota School of Law. “

“Why would you be terminated? Certainly not for what I witnessed.”

I shifted strategies. “Nice suit.”

“Ermenegildo Zegna.”

“You didn’t buy that at West Acre Mall…. Is it silk?”

“Silk blended with superfine 600 fiber Trofeo wool.” He stepped forward. “Rafael Jose Caberra La Muerte.”

 “Mr. Death.”  The law firm’s largest foreign client: oil leases, mineral rights, timber, cattle, and Western States Renewable Energy.

“Call me Rafe.”

 “Andrea.” I reached over to shake.

Mr. Death drew my hand to his lips. “The person I came to see.” Mr. Death pointed to the chair piled with files I’d been scanning. “With your permission?”

I carefully transferred them to the long table, then motioned him to the chair. “How may I help you?”

“You saved my firm a great deal of money. I wanted to thank you in person.”

Five weeks ago, in an attempt to break my spirit, my uncle assigned me the task of reviewing mineral rights leasing agreements. Three days ago, I discovered an error that would have cost Western States its lease and millions in potential revenue.

“I flew in from Laramie after Bobbie Crumm called. I wanted to meet the person who averted the disaster. Imagine my surprise when I discovered she had been relegated to scanning and shredding old documents.”

My uncle, Harry Morton, had taken special pleasure in my exile. “The Partners call it Little Andrea’s Error.”

“Your ‘error’?” Mr. Death stopped. “Oh, I see. Your ‘error’ was discovering the problem.”

“It’s more complicated than that. I also discovered who’d written the lease, an addendum, also in error, and the person signed off. When I took the documents to my uncle, he preferred ‘cover up’ to ‘clean up.’”

Mr. Death tilted his head attentively. “But it wasn’t covered up….”

“I made copies of the documents and sent them to Western States.”

“Well played!”

“Due diligence.”

His smile broadened. “That didn’t win you friends.”

“Didn’t have many to start with.”

“So the firm….”

“My uncle….”

“…locked you in the Dead File Room, threatened your internship if you named names, and gave Bobbie Crumm, Jr. the credit for correcting the problem.”

“They gave Junior credit?” My face flushed.

“His father told me Junior found the error.”

“Found it? He made it.” I rose from my chair, indignant. “If the power went out, Junior couldn’t find his way out with a map and a flashlight.”

“Yes, but you have bigger problems than Junior.” Mr. Death motioned me back to my seat. “The partners at Whitney, Hiller, Morton, Bravetheart, & Crumm have bunkered down. They can’t terminate you until they figure out what else you know.”

Mr. Death was a relentless capitalist, a man who broke competitors, someone intolerant of incompetence. “That explains why they locked me in here.”

“They didn’t want you talking to anyone. Has your email been down all day? No cell phone coverage?”

“I.T. is working on it…. Oh! They did that.”

Mr. Death surveyed the room. There were piles labeled To Scan and To Shred. A third pile at my feet remained unlabeled. “Now, thanks to your uncle’s profound lack of insight, you possess even more damaging information.” He pointed to the unlabeled files.

I shrugged.

 “Your uncle punished you with the pedestrian task of shredding old files and thus gave you access to all the firm’s long-buried secrets.” He noted the open backpack on the floor beside the files. “Which you intend to spirit from the building….”

“Bobbie Junior isn’t the only idiot who works here.” He nodded. “Tell me, Mr. Death….”

“Please call me Rafe.”

“Okay, Rafe. Tell me why you hired this firm?”

“I needed a trusted name to assure the locals I was not ‘a godless foreigner coming to plunder their land.’ My attorneys do most of the work, for obvious reasons.” He hesitated. “Now, I’m setting up a legal team in Laramie.”

“And I suppose you want me to head it up?”

“Gracious, no.” Rafe laughed. “You’re a legal intern. You haven’t finished law school or passed the bar. You have no business background, no MBA, and no knowledge of mining, cattle, or renewable energy.”

“Well… there is that.” I tried to read his body language. “I may have misunderstood your intentions.”

“I told you. I’m here to thank you.”

“And…?”

“I was wondering if you had dinner plans?”

“Would that be appropriate?”

“This would not be a date. It’s a munch. A gathering of folks interested in BDSM.” Rafe steepled his hands. “A chance to get to know people and to be known.”

“Strictly social?”

“Yes. The private party comes later, by invitation, couples only.”

“Being the best-dressed person in the room should guarantee an invitation.”

“There are petty jealousies, insecurities….”

“Ignorant twats like Bobbie Crumm, Jr.”

“And they try to balance Tops and Bottoms. Typically, there are more Submissives than Doms.”

“You’re a Sub?  How can you be a Sub?  You are totally in control.”

“Only in the business world. When I play, I find it therapeutic to relinquish control.”

“And what about me?  What am I?” 

“Ms. Morton, you are pure Dom. Your uncle locked you up because he was afraid if he gave you too much rope….”

“I’d tie him up.”

“Exactly.”

I crossed my arms. “You want to play Mistress and Slave?”

Rafe laughed. “A tempting proposition, but no. The term Mistress implies a lifestyle commitment to dominate someone. A slave suggests that the person is willing to put his entire being under the control of the other person. It’s a total power exchange. Definitely not what I am suggesting.” Rafe spoke sincerely.

“I’m asking you to join me at a social gathering. Afterward, we might be offered the opportunity to play.”

“Play?” 

“Dominance and Submission is an intimate game, a sensual role play between equally matched players.”

“For example?”

“Age Play. The classic example is Teacher/Student Play.”

“I’d be the teacher,” I gloated, “and you’d be the student?”

“Yes, we could do that. But you wouldn’t be happy about it.”

“Why?”

“I’d play the Brat, someone who breaks the rules and acts disrespectfully….”

“And I’d be forced to punish you….”

“Yes, you’d try. You might berate me, or force me to stand in the corner, strike me on the wrists with a ruler….”

“Spank you.”

“But I doubt if that would be sufficient punishment to persuade me to obey.”

I imagined the scene. What if I couldn’t impose my will?  What then?

“Let me suggest another scenario. What if I played the Milk Toast Teacher, a diminutive student who catches himself pleasuring after school while gazing at her senior picture? She threatens to blackmail him if he doesn’t do everything she says.”

I looked at the clock. “Let’s try that.”

“It’s not that simple, and this isn’t the place. BDSM is about trust. We’d need to talk through the role play, establish soft and hard limits, decide on safe words.”

“I see.”

He stood up. “A relationship takes time, but a munch would be a good place to begin.”

I stated the obvious. “You’re not playing a Sub now.”

“I’m a Switch,” he confessed. “Someone who can play Bottom or Top. They are in demand at parties to provide balance.”

I eased out of the chair. “I’m game.”

He checked his Rolex. “It’s at Sickes Garage: Burgers and Brews.”

“Great.” I knew the place: dozens of burgers, jalapeno poppers, fried pickles, and fifty beers on tap. “I’m a woman with an appetite.”

“I prefer full-figured women.”

“Even if they’re four feet seven inches?”

“All the more interesting.”

“I’d look great in PVC.”

“You would look better in Spanish leather.” Rafe pulled the key from his pocket. “Let me return this to your uncle and inform him that you are feeling under the weather and leaving early. I’d prefer to not be in the room when you pack your backpack, but I suspect if we leave the building together, no one will stop you and ask to look inside it.” He hesitated. “The Disciplined Life is about trust, and trust takes time.”

I reached for my suit jacket. “Let’s get started.”