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Chapter Twenty Four
I did not sleep well. I dreamed of Liz. Authoritative, dashing Liz and her ingenue servant, the obsequious Jamie. How much I enjoyed being in their presence, being under control. The deep depravity of being displayed naked, bound, erect was so peculiarly stimulating.
But it was over. I had broken out of the Stockholm Syndrome. It seemed so simple, unclipping the physical bonds, finally having my way with Jamie and then moving onward.
But then I awoke with Little Sam preparing to cut diamonds. And whereas I would normally give the little guy some swift strokes, explode into a tissue and return to sleep, the ultimate urge was not there. It seemed boring.
The urge was for Jamie...and for Liz to be supervising while I once again took advantage of the effeminate body and the envy ‘she’ displayed for my engorged penis...one which ‘she’ had so vicariously pleasured, and with such zeal.
Half sleeping, half daydreaming I dragged myself to the bathroom. In preparing for the 10:00 a.m. meeting I did a strange thing. I shaved my groin.
Had I truly escaped?
With plenty of time on my hands I walked to my former place of employment. Despite the desperation of my financial and living status, Jamie and Liz occupied my thoughts. I could think of little else, visualizing the perfectly rounded girlish buttocks, the tiny restrained penis, the puffed nipples, the pretty hair and blue eyes. And of course Liz is always in the fantasy, standing over my nakedness in full dress, confidently uttering, in her low smooth and sultry voice, supremely humiliating commands and requests.
Security escorted me to the 35th floor. There would be no diversions to bid farewell to colleagues or to network for future employment. I was taken directly to the executive conference room where in better times I enjoyed the respect of MacDonald Bear’s executive committee and earned the admiration of my fellow workers in receiving killer bonuses for negotiating, clenching, and completing huge merger deals.
And now I would humbly sit while an ambulance-chasing lawyer negotiated, clenched and completed some type of ‘settlement’.
The room was emp
ty at my arrival and I had a moment to marvel at its size, accouterments, and the electronic wizardry cleverly disguised by tasteful carpeting, lavish mahogany paneling and thick dark red curtains which eliminated all daylight.
I sat in the middle the long conference table. The security guard remained, positioning himself just outside the door. Within a minute, the raven-haired goddess of Fifth Avenue appeared, professionally attired in a black turtle neck and charcoal pants suit. With her was Jamie of course, strolling with Liz holding his left hand in her right. But it was not Jamie the servant; it was Jamie the little girl. In what I am sure was deliberate contrast to Liz’s drab attire, Little Jamie wore a lightly colored dress of blue and white, white socks ending halfway up her calve, white cotton gloves, black pumps and a black purse, the size of which made it impractical for anything other than to falsely portray the bearer’s chosen gender.
As I scanned the young beautiful creature, the projected image got worse, or better, depending on the viewer’s proclivities. The blond hair, formerly in a pageboy, had grown enough over the weeks such that it was tortured into pigtails. Though comically short, pointing skyward rather than dangling toward the neck, the two opposing clumps of hair sent a definite message to the unaware: Jamie was a little girl.
The makeup was no longer expertly applied and alluring. No for this ‘settlement’ conference it was thick and somewhat sloppy, suggesting to the viewer that ‘mommy had let the little girl try to apply her own lipstick and rouge’. The results prompted a reaction of ‘cuteness’ from the unknowing admirer. In me the reaction was one of nausea.
“Liz, I’m sorry,” I blurted as the duo sat opposite to me. But she just looked at me blankly and after a moment turned to help Jamie properly sit. His dress rumpled when he had taken the chair, hinting that it was not a garment worn with familiarity.
Before another word could be uttered, a very stern and dour woman of some 35 years entered. She was accompanied by and talking to Ms. Grace Hobson in a very friendly manner. Their discussion ended before coming into earshot and Ms. Hobson stared at me with the smugness of an overconfident athlete who had just hit the winning home run, caught the winning touchdown pass, sunk the winning putt.
I was shocked to see Ms. Hobson sit. I thought the conference was regarding personal matters, but the thought was lost when the dour woman began speaking. It was evident that she was the attorney, Suzanne Regal. Her manner was annoyingly brash and her speech well rehearsed.
“I am Suzanne Regal, Mr. Winthrop. I believe you know everyone else here. I have asked Grace Hobson to participate on behalf of MacDonald, Bear as it is possible some of your alleged actions may have affected the employer/employee relationship. It is not our intention at this time to seek restitution from MacDonald Bear, but circumstance may come to light that suggest a degree of the firm’s involvement. There are numerous security licenses at stake here, and a blue chip reputation...”
And obviously it was not mine, I thought.
As the primly dressed woman spoke she began emptying a thick briefcase, piling folders and documents on the table. When a video tape appeared, I gulped.
“This is a very complicated matter which we would like to settle. There are alleged civil torts, possible administrative violations, alleged criminal activity. The downside for a losing defendant can be considerable in this matter, Mr. Winthrop. Failure to successfully defend in all three of those forums could be devastating for someone in the securities business. Just losing a large civil damage suit could force personal bankruptcy, and I don’t have to elaborate on the prospects of a person’s employability in the securities industry who has sought the protection of the bankruptcy courts.”
She paused. Yes, I was very much aware that there was an industry wide employment policy of abstaining from engaging the services of anyone who had declared personal bankruptcy within five years.
“So, let’s begin.”
A small tape recorder appeared.
“Hope you don’t mind, Mr. Winthrop.”
I nodded. I was not in a position to dictate any terms or conditions. And besides, I intended to merely listen.
She pressed a button and dictated the time, date and persons in attendance. Then the verbal onslaught began.
“Let’s begin with this folder, Mr. Winthrop. For now we’ll term it ‘exhibit A’. This copy is yours, to be read at your leisure.”
She slid a folder across the table. In opening it, a very formal legal document appeared.
