Reception
Page 16
“I thought you were working?” she breathed. He took the book out of her hand.
“I am. You're distracting me. Not good, Ms. O'Shea.”
“I'm not good very often.”
“You should work on that.”
Jameson was crowding close to her, forcing her to move around, forcing her down the room. He finally stopped when they were in front of the couch. She was saying something but Sanders couldn't quite make it out. Her voice was soft and breathy. Sexual. Normal.
Suddenly, Jameson lashed out. Slapped her across the face. Not necessarily hard, but enough to make her head whip to the side. Then he was grabbing her by the throat, pulling her close to him. She was still talking, still breathing silky words. Jameson chuckled, then shoved her, forcing her to fall onto the couch. She laughed, almost more of a giggle, and then he was lowering himself over her. On top of her, pressing down on her. She moaned, working the buttons open on his shirt. Pushing it off his shoulders. Jameson shrugged out of it and then used it to tie her wrists together.
But that's Dior.
Sanders turned and walked away. Walked past the sitting room and out the front door. Kept going till he was at the guest house – his house. Didn't stop till he was upstairs in his room. There was a cushioned chair in a corner, and Sanders sat down on it. Cleared his throat. Adjusted his tie.
Of course he had seen Jameson and her in all sorts of compromising positions. The two weren't particularly shy and had a horrible tendency to forget to lock doors. Or even shut them all the way. Sanders never knocked, because years of living alone with Jameson had conditioned him to not need to. So he had walked in on them, several times, in the middle of sex.
Even before her, Jameson hadn't been bashful. He had long ago explained his somewhat unconventional sexual preferences to Sanders. He liked rough sex, he liked dishing it out, and he liked being mean. Then after he had started sleeping with her, he'd taken Sanders aside and had gone into more detail. Explained that Sanders might see some things that could possibly cause him to worry, but that he shouldn't – she wanted these things done to her. They were her idea. She liked to be treated roughly, she liked what Jameson had to dish out, and she loved it when he was mean. The meaner, the better.
Still. Seeing Jameson hit her. Seeing him slap her. It did something to Sanders. Made him feel something. And Sanders was not a man of much feeling.
He should not be allowed to touch her like that.
Sanders spent the rest of the day trying to sort out his feelings. He left the armchair only to take off his jacket and use the restroom. His phone rang at one point, but it was her calling. He had never purposefully avoided her phone calls before, but he let that one go to voicemail. Didn't listen to her message.
The sun set. He sat in the dark, trying to figure out where his thoughts were coming from, his feelings. He had seen Jameson treat her roughly before, had seen him grab her by the throat. Had seen him push her around. One time Jameson had pinned her to the kitchen floor and cut her shirt off of her. Sanders hadn't witnessed it, but they had both told him about it. Another time, almost a year ago, while Sanders had watched from the hall, Jameson had wrapped both his hands around her neck. Shoved her up against the car.
Why was this time so different?
He should not be allowed to touch her like that.
Sanders finally changed into his pajamas and laid in bed. Stared at his ceiling. Sometimes, when Jameson was out of town, she would come over and sleep next to Sanders. It gave her comfort, so he didn't mind indulging her. Sometimes she cuddled against him, and he didn't mind that, either. He usually didn't think much about it.
But as he laid there, staring at his ceiling, he started thinking about it. She was warm, and soft, and usually smelled good. She would hum and sigh in her sleep. She would twine her legs around his, wrap her arms around him. He was an early riser, she was a late sleeper, so in the mornings he would lay as still as possible, waiting till she woke up on her own. She usually did with a stretch and sigh, laughing at her messy hair and his proper pajamas. So silly.
When did I start looking at her like that?
Sanders glanced at the clock. Two in the morning. He stared back at the ceiling. Thought about what he had seen in the library. Sanders had never been intimate with a woman before, didn't spend much time thinking about it. Now he couldn't seem to stop. Was he hitting a secondary sort of puberty? He didn't understand it. There were so many questions. She had been acting childish. Annoying. Why did that seem to spark a certain kind of reaction? And how had Jameson known that's what she'd been trying to do?
And how did Jameson know when to get up? How did he know when to touch her? How to touch her? Was there some signal? Something she said? When was it time to lower her to the couch?
So many things Sanders didn't know about, hadn't ever really thought about. It was all like an intricate dance that he didn't know the steps to – and it seemed like everyone else did know. How was he supposed to learn? Who was supposed to teach him?
“... I could show you the ropes ...”
He closed his eyes finally. He had always dreaded this moment. Knew it was going to happen someday. Knew something would bring it about eventually.
But that didn't mean he had to like it.
*
“Sir,” Sanders said, striding into the library the next day. He didn't look at the couch.
“Where have you been all day? It's almost noon,” Jameson snapped. He was standing next to his desk, holding a Chinese takeout container and using chopsticks to eat chow mein out of it.
“I was at home. I need to discuss something important with you. Where is she?” Sanders asked, glancing around. Still not looking at the couch.
“In the pool. Does this have to be now? We just got lunch,” Jameson replied, gesturing to the other containers which were on his desk.
“I would like for it to be now, while it's just the two of us,” Sanders said. Jameson glared, but didn't move. Shoveled some more noodles into his mouth.
“Well, make it fast. If this gets cold she's going to bitch, and then I'll have to order more, and then -”
“I am going to be moving away, sir,” Sanders interrupted.
Jameson started choking.
“Jesus,” he finally managed to hack out, dropping the container onto his desk and then pounding on his chest. “Just like that, huh!? 'Hello, good afternoon, oh by the way, I'm moving,' - what are you talking about?”
“I am. You're distracting me. Not good, Ms. O'Shea.”
“I'm not good very often.”
“You should work on that.”
Jameson was crowding close to her, forcing her to move around, forcing her down the room. He finally stopped when they were in front of the couch. She was saying something but Sanders couldn't quite make it out. Her voice was soft and breathy. Sexual. Normal.
Suddenly, Jameson lashed out. Slapped her across the face. Not necessarily hard, but enough to make her head whip to the side. Then he was grabbing her by the throat, pulling her close to him. She was still talking, still breathing silky words. Jameson chuckled, then shoved her, forcing her to fall onto the couch. She laughed, almost more of a giggle, and then he was lowering himself over her. On top of her, pressing down on her. She moaned, working the buttons open on his shirt. Pushing it off his shoulders. Jameson shrugged out of it and then used it to tie her wrists together.
But that's Dior.
Sanders turned and walked away. Walked past the sitting room and out the front door. Kept going till he was at the guest house – his house. Didn't stop till he was upstairs in his room. There was a cushioned chair in a corner, and Sanders sat down on it. Cleared his throat. Adjusted his tie.
Of course he had seen Jameson and her in all sorts of compromising positions. The two weren't particularly shy and had a horrible tendency to forget to lock doors. Or even shut them all the way. Sanders never knocked, because years of living alone with Jameson had conditioned him to not need to. So he had walked in on them, several times, in the middle of sex.
Even before her, Jameson hadn't been bashful. He had long ago explained his somewhat unconventional sexual preferences to Sanders. He liked rough sex, he liked dishing it out, and he liked being mean. Then after he had started sleeping with her, he'd taken Sanders aside and had gone into more detail. Explained that Sanders might see some things that could possibly cause him to worry, but that he shouldn't – she wanted these things done to her. They were her idea. She liked to be treated roughly, she liked what Jameson had to dish out, and she loved it when he was mean. The meaner, the better.
Still. Seeing Jameson hit her. Seeing him slap her. It did something to Sanders. Made him feel something. And Sanders was not a man of much feeling.
He should not be allowed to touch her like that.
Sanders spent the rest of the day trying to sort out his feelings. He left the armchair only to take off his jacket and use the restroom. His phone rang at one point, but it was her calling. He had never purposefully avoided her phone calls before, but he let that one go to voicemail. Didn't listen to her message.
The sun set. He sat in the dark, trying to figure out where his thoughts were coming from, his feelings. He had seen Jameson treat her roughly before, had seen him grab her by the throat. Had seen him push her around. One time Jameson had pinned her to the kitchen floor and cut her shirt off of her. Sanders hadn't witnessed it, but they had both told him about it. Another time, almost a year ago, while Sanders had watched from the hall, Jameson had wrapped both his hands around her neck. Shoved her up against the car.
Why was this time so different?
He should not be allowed to touch her like that.
Sanders finally changed into his pajamas and laid in bed. Stared at his ceiling. Sometimes, when Jameson was out of town, she would come over and sleep next to Sanders. It gave her comfort, so he didn't mind indulging her. Sometimes she cuddled against him, and he didn't mind that, either. He usually didn't think much about it.
But as he laid there, staring at his ceiling, he started thinking about it. She was warm, and soft, and usually smelled good. She would hum and sigh in her sleep. She would twine her legs around his, wrap her arms around him. He was an early riser, she was a late sleeper, so in the mornings he would lay as still as possible, waiting till she woke up on her own. She usually did with a stretch and sigh, laughing at her messy hair and his proper pajamas. So silly.
When did I start looking at her like that?
Sanders glanced at the clock. Two in the morning. He stared back at the ceiling. Thought about what he had seen in the library. Sanders had never been intimate with a woman before, didn't spend much time thinking about it. Now he couldn't seem to stop. Was he hitting a secondary sort of puberty? He didn't understand it. There were so many questions. She had been acting childish. Annoying. Why did that seem to spark a certain kind of reaction? And how had Jameson known that's what she'd been trying to do?
And how did Jameson know when to get up? How did he know when to touch her? How to touch her? Was there some signal? Something she said? When was it time to lower her to the couch?
So many things Sanders didn't know about, hadn't ever really thought about. It was all like an intricate dance that he didn't know the steps to – and it seemed like everyone else did know. How was he supposed to learn? Who was supposed to teach him?
“... I could show you the ropes ...”
He closed his eyes finally. He had always dreaded this moment. Knew it was going to happen someday. Knew something would bring it about eventually.
But that didn't mean he had to like it.
*
“Sir,” Sanders said, striding into the library the next day. He didn't look at the couch.
“Where have you been all day? It's almost noon,” Jameson snapped. He was standing next to his desk, holding a Chinese takeout container and using chopsticks to eat chow mein out of it.
“I was at home. I need to discuss something important with you. Where is she?” Sanders asked, glancing around. Still not looking at the couch.
“In the pool. Does this have to be now? We just got lunch,” Jameson replied, gesturing to the other containers which were on his desk.
“I would like for it to be now, while it's just the two of us,” Sanders said. Jameson glared, but didn't move. Shoveled some more noodles into his mouth.
“Well, make it fast. If this gets cold she's going to bitch, and then I'll have to order more, and then -”
“I am going to be moving away, sir,” Sanders interrupted.
Jameson started choking.
“Jesus,” he finally managed to hack out, dropping the container onto his desk and then pounding on his chest. “Just like that, huh!? 'Hello, good afternoon, oh by the way, I'm moving,' - what are you talking about?”
