I've been wondering something: If there was a paypal button, and you could donate some money to keep me writing, would you do it? No minimum, no maximum, just a system for leaving tips. Would anyone take advantage of that?
Anyway, today's story is from The List. I really like the result. Hopefully, so will you.
Put Through the Paces
Harry didn’t smoke cigars. He just
chewed on them. Something about have the cigar clenched between his teeth made
him feel powerful, made him feel in charge. It made him feel rich. More than the money, more than the expensive clothes
that, according to his assistant, made him look well to do, and more than the
casual way he might bet a thousand dollars on a hole of golf, were he inclined
to play the stupid game.
He liked having his sleeves rolled
up. He lighted the hair on his forearms and the cigar in his mouth that made
him feel like some kind of old timey gangster. If he thought he could get away
with it, he’d even wear a fedora. But that might be taking it too far.
Still, he kept his desk a little bit
higher than it needed to be, and his chair was several inches taller than it
had to be. The chairs he had for guests were lower to the ground than they had
to be. No matter who came in and sat down, Harry always got to look down on
them. He liked that.
Little power trips. That’s what made
life interesting. That’s what made him the boss. It’s why they paid him the big
bucks, or something like that. Harry liked making people feel uncomfortable
around him. He liked people being scared of him. He liked being intimidating.
No one needed to know that he’d made his money programming computers in his mom’s
basement. Now, they only needed to know one thing: he was the rich one. Which
meant he was the one in charge.
His first meeting of the day had
just wrapped up. It had been satisfying. Ted, one of his two horse people, had
been properly intimidated. He’d wrung his hands together a lot, he’d avoided
eye contact. His upper lip had been sweaty. He had been self-conscious from the
moment he walked in. That wasn’t an accident; Harry made sure to send for him
while he was in the middle of doing something that would make him stink. And he
had made sure not to give him time to clean up. Ted had smelled bad, and knew
he smelled bad, and felt smaller for it.
Now it was time for the second
meeting, for Elizabeth, the other horse person. She had been spending the
morning running the horses through their paces, whatever that meant. Harry
assumed it meant she would be tired, sweaty, and just as self-conscious as Ted
had been.
She didn’t knock, just walked in.
Her hair was tucked up under a riding helmet, and the pants painted onto her
legs vanished into knee high leather boots whose toes curled up almost
obscenely. Probably a horse thing. She didn’t have spurs, which surprised
Harry. She wore brown leather gloves, a crisp white blouse, and a tightly
buttoned blazer. She didn’t look sweaty, awkward, or nervous. In fact, she
looked almost imperious, her mouth set in a slight expression of disapproval,
like he was inconveniencing her. Her clothes were spotless and perfectly in
place. The only thing Harry could identify as being imperfect was the mud that
had dried on her boots.
“Did you not have time to change?”
he asked, trying to be intimidating.
She looked at him coldly. “I was
told you wanted to speak with me.”
He leaned back in his plush leather
chair and gestured to one of the uncomfortable seats on the other side of his
desk. “Please,” he said, “Have a seat.”
She gave him a smile with all the
warmth of the space between galaxies. “I’ll stand, if it’s all the same to you.”
He couldn’t order her to sit.
Insisting that she do so would just make him look petty. He straightened in his
seat and tried to hide his frustration, tried to find some way to take control
of the situation.
“At least take off your hat thing,”
he said, giving a dismissive wave.
Her hair would be out of place. That
might make her feel awkward. Harry could work with that.
“It’s called a helmet,” she said,
her tone that perfect mix of condescension and instruction. Not enough for
Harry to take offense, but not enough to think she was just trying to educate
him, either.
“Whatever,” he said. “Take it off.”
She gave him a tiny smirk and
unbuckled the helmet. She pulled it carefully off her head. Harry half expected
her to whip her head around and the hair to settle into place, almost perfect
but for the imprint of the helmet.
But not a hair was out of place. Not
a hair moved. It was all tied up in a tight bun, one that made her look even
more severe. It was like the cut of her cheek bones somehow got sharper, her
features somehow more regal.
“Your boots are dirty,” Harry said.
“Yes,” she said. “I was working.”
Then she locked eyes with him. “Did you call me in here so you could clean them
for me, or is there something you wanted to talk about?”
That rocked Harry back on his heels.
It sent images through his mind that he had to shake off, ideas and thoughts, a
bit of salivation, a tightness in his pants, and a general confusion at the
whole reaction. “What?” It was the only word he could remember.
Her smile grew a bit more
pronounced, though still clipped and formal as her tone of voice. “You asked to
see me,” she said.
“I did?” he shook his head, cleared
his throat. “I did. Yes.”
“Was there something you wanted to
talk about?” She put her hands on her hips and set her stance. He found his
eyes again drifting down to her boots, to that curve at the toe as if the boots
had an erection. Then he remembered what she had said about cleaning them, and
he blushed.
Harry hated the feeling of blushing.
The heat on his cheeks frustrated him. This is not how things were supposed to go.
“I asked you horse people to come in
and tell me how my studs are doing.”
“I am an equestrian trainer,” she
said. “Horse people are either mythical centaurs or people who like to dress in
leather and pretend to be horses, or those who train them.” She raised an
eyebrow at him, as if daring him to ask for details.
And he wanted to. Suddenly, he
wanted to know. Leather. Pretend to be a horse. Would she use the riding crop?
Would there be a bridle, or a bit, or whatever those gags were called?
He was about to ask, but then she
rolled her eyes.
“Regardless,” she said, “there is
only one stud in these stables. He is doing fine. A bit more work, and you may
be able to race him. The fillies are also doing well. Two of them are show
quality, I think. The other isn’t much good to you as more than a brood mare.”
Harry nodded as if he understood a
word of what she had just told him. “Fine, fine,” he said. He wished he had
some papers to shuffle, something to show he was a busy man, and that she was
wasting his time.
She tapped her foot. Just once. In
that single tap, she made it very clear
that she felt like he was wasting her
time. As if her time was more valuable.
Harry wanted to fire her. He wanted
to ruin her life, to black list her. But he had no cause. She had improved the
dressage standards of his horses, she was a better trainer than Ted could ever
be, and no one ever had an unkind word to say about her. Harry wondered if they
were afraid to say anything that might upset her.
He wasn’t afraid. Well, not exactly.
He didn’t want her upset, but she
didn’t intimidate him. That’s not how it worked. He was the one doing the
intimidating.
He leaned back again, put his hands
behind his head. He had the expensive chair. He had the big office with the
huge windows. He had the antique oak desk, the art on the walls that supposedly
meant he had taste. He was the one with the tailored suit and the ten thousand
dollar watch. He had the cigar.
What did she have?
“Is there anything else?” she asked,
her eyes glittering in the light and clearly looking down at him. No, not down
at him. Down on him. She was looking
down on him!
Harry wanted to growl, wanted to
scream at her. He wanted to throw something. To hurdle over the desk and
throttle her with his bare hands.
But there was something about the
way she stood. Something about the way he could trace the muscles in her legs
even through her pants, about the confident way she stood with her hands on her
hips, and about the cold look in her eyes that promised him that such an
attempt would end badly. As if she were daring him to do it, and both ready and
fully capable of kicking his ass when he tried.
The fractional raise of her eyebrow
promised that he’d be on the floor, clutching his balls after she kicked him.
The curve at the corner of her lip guaranteed that she’d catch any punch he
tried to throw at her, then twist his wrist and slam him into the desk,
completely under her power.
The tap of her gloved finger against
her belt swore that he would be licking more than mud from her boots, and that
she would damned well make sure he did a good job.
Three promises, three threats, all
provided by the tiniest of movements. All things that Harry kind of wanted to
put to the test. Not because he thought he could beat her, but because he
thought he might like it when she beat him.
“No,” he said, his voice weak with
both confusion and desire. “There’s nothing else.” Then he said something he
never intended to say, not to anyone. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
She smiled at him, curious and
cruel. “I’ll let you know,” she said. She spun on her heel and headed to the
door.
Hand on the knob, she glanced at him
over her shoulder. “I’m sure I’ll think of something you can do,” she said.
The cigar fell from Harry’s mouth.
Nicely done! MizNina.
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