LIAISONS FOR LAUGHS:
ANGIE & ELLA'S SUMMER OF DELIRIUM

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II.1
Angie to Ella
Monday, June 30, 2003 10:03 AM

Ella, why on earth would you fail to show up at work today? I thought we had the maul-Martin’s-peace-of-mind project all planned out! I was thirsting to hike up my skirt and get him salivating without you but, of course, that would preclude having the added dimension of yourself posing as sympathetic confidant and providing advice as to how he’s to court my favor. But I want to punish him in the worst way! Want him languishing in the toils of violent desire he’s unable to sate! Want him thirsting for me while showing him nothing but cruel disdain! And you know this! So why would you call in saying you needed to take a Personal Day (Oh, yes, I already know: Sylvia told me!) and deprive me of my revenge?

I expect an answer today, Ella! I need to know if you’ll be here tomorrow! That creep has got to blaze in his very own hell of an inflamed body that he’s unable to escape from! What he did to Linda’s inexcusable, and he’s going to suffer miserably for it!

So let me know, Miss Unreliable!

Your,

AnnoyedAngie

II.2
Ella to Angie
Monday, June 30, 2003 10:46 PM

Darling, I apologize profusely! And don’t you worry, we’ll have arrogant thoughtless Martin incurably melancholic by the end of the week! I’m definitely coming in tomorrow, as much to assist you in your project as to justify Sturmheld’s confidence in me. (I’ve been busy pacifying him for the past three hours for today’s absence by faxing in comments on the [____] IPO.)

So why was I absent today? Simple: I had another Stevie adventure! They’ve been coming rather thick and fast of late, taking up all my spare time and intruding on time I don’t necessarily have to spare; but why shouldn’t they? Stevie’s a bottomless well of imagination-stimulation and there’s no sense in letting such abundance go to waste; because if my imagination’s stimulated then my svelte lil’ body’s stimulated and la petite mort truly becomes a fountain of life! Stevie’s always willing and I’m always willing: not a chance am I going to say no to another chapter of our ongoing adventures in fantasy-becomes-flesh! Stevie makes me feel sultry and seductive, as if a dying man would spring to health at the sight of me: such feelings are irresistible to a vain lil’ fashion plate plaything like me! I apologized for missing work today, but I’m actually not sorry in the least! And before you get miffed at that lil’ confession, let me tell of today’s fantasy fun: maybe then you’ll understand why the mess-up-Martin’s-manhood project, worthy though it be, had to be placed on hold! I’m sure you will, because you’re a funloving—fantasy-mongering—floozy too!

My fun as follows:

I finally fulfilled one of my most treasured ambitions: indulgence in a trailer trollop fantasy fling! Dressing for the fling was a delight-unto-itself: I had a fine doll-myself-up time of it in the bathroom, with the CD player blaring dance music, an organic health bar and plate of mixed berries for nibbles, fizzy spring water with lime juice infusion for quaffing (Ha, ever notice how annoyed some people get at our finicky health food diet?—accusing us of being food snobs because we have the good sense not to cram our gullets with hydrogenated oil saturated garbage?—because we refuse to undermine our energy with empty-caloried trash? We eat right to play right, right? There’s nothing more essential to having fine sex adventures than a clean bill of health; and if one makes oneself ridiculously healthy... Oh, ho ho! I eat right to lust right! Good nutrition fans the slut fires, and how! Good nutrition brings about that itching-to-rut bouncing-off-the-walls feeling of empowerment I love so much!); I didn’t step from the bathroom for at least three hours, being as how I did plenty of trail-and-error mirror star stuff! After all, why bother to get ready for a date if I can’t play like a little girl who dreams of growing up to have the boys fawning at her feet?

As for what I wore: 1) a polyester leopard print skirt, with slits very sloppily cut up each side with a pair of scissors; 2) a pink pullover, sleeveless and of faded cotton with some bleach splotches; 3) a God-awful wig, dirty mousy brown, piled high in a circa 1950s do; 4) the cheapest brassiere I could find at the drugstore, with the tan straps dangling down my arms (A discomfort I was willing to endure for the sake of trailer trollop authenticity.); 5) plastic gold bedroom slippers with the toes cut off (Not the easiest things to saunter down the sidewalk in; but, again: for the sake of having the best trailer trollop getup ever.); and 6) pink stockings with plenty of runs. And then there was the makeup, layered on like I’ve never done in my life! Just take my word for it: I was something of a hybrid of clown and witch, fit for a carnival or Halloween! There was enough of it on me to make me feel like my cheeks were being pulled down my face! In short, I didn’t just look like a trailer trollop, I was a caricature of what a city girl thinks a trailer trollop looks like! By the time I was done, make up was spilled all over the vanity and floor—nail polish splattered, sparkles scattered, a compact shattered! ’Twas a labor of Hercules, and I was like as not to orgasm sheerly from the delight of making that kind of mess...

OK, so I’m ready and it’s nearly eleven. Stevie’s not at his apartment: he’s taken a room at the Essex House, a brilliant ad lib of setting (He called at about nine-thirty to tell me.) that lends more of a myself-as-a-trampy-out-of-towner feel to this grand event. It was worth it for what happened in the Essex House lobby alone...

The reaction from the man at the front desk is priceless: first, there’s a drop-jawed gaping-eyed look of utter disbelief—“His eyes opened up to swallow the sky,” as they say; then there’s a huffy gathering up of his dignity, a look like he’s about to shoo me away. So I speak up and, in my very sophisticated (If I say so myself!) attorney voice, say: “Mr. Bergendahl is expecting me in room 1544. Please tell him the girl from Arkansas is here to discuss the legal matter.”

Well, the deskman’s face is contorting every which way; the shoo-away impulse makes an embarrassed retreat, and confusion reasserts itself. “Yes, Ma’am,” he finally manages while continuing to look me up and down, “I’ll let Mr. Bergendahl know.” He makes the call while exchanging a sort of, “She seems to actually know someone who’s staying here, so I guess I have to do this.” look with his coworker, a fiftyish woman. She’s looking at me as if I’m some sort of riddle to solve—undecided as to whether I’m a hooker, lunatic, bona fide hick, or bright girl playing games: no real way for her to know, right? Ha ha ha!

It’s during the deskman’s ring upstairs that Stevie distinguishes himself in the gratuitous pranking department, asking (as I quickly discern) the man to describe me.

“Uuuhh... What?” the deskman manages to articulate. His eyes skitter every which way, as if seeking to locate someone to pass the phone to; obviously, he doesn’t dare bother the woman, who’s probably a superior. There’s no one nearby, though—what a shame: he’s stuck with the unpleasant situation. (And how I adore being an unpleasant situation a pompous dolt must deal with!)

Stevie obviously reiterates his request more emphatically, because the deskman answers, “Sir, I realize it’s a simple question... I wasn’t sure I heard you right... No, Sir, I’m not trying to be difficult... I don’t doubt you, I...” Again he trails off, treating me to a glance of alarm; you’d think he’s being asked to provide intimate details of his sex life, or lack thereof...

Then a look of relief comes into the deskman’s face; he tells Stevie, “I’ll just pass her the phone.” and extends it towards me in a manner I find insulting, because there’s an implied command to take it from his hand.

“Oh, no!” I quickly say, taking a step back in horror. “Public phones are contaminated—unsanitary, covered with germs! I just got over a bad cold, and I know a public phone was the cause! I’m never touching a public phone again!” Ha ha, as if I’d ever allow a conceited clown to wriggle out of a ticklish situation! As if I’m the sort of girl who’s going to do violence to her dignity by blindly obeying the laughably fake firmness of manner with which he holds the phone to me while giving me one of those pathetic meaningful looks! I’m thinking: “The moon will fall into the Atlantic Ocean before I’ll take that phone from you, buster! Not a chance am I letting you off the hook, cringing unmannerly coward!”

Then I add in one of those evil-polite, laced-with-poison, tones: “Sir, I’m very surprised that a man in a professional situation would thrust a phone at me as you have. In the first place it’s rude; in the second place it’s not your place to ask me to do your job for you; in the third place I have no idea where that phone’s been or whose lips it’s touched (Here I give him a particularly derisive look.), and... Sir, it’s a health hazard and I’m truly astonished.”

Out of the frying pan and into the fire, as they say. Now our deskman stammers: “Ma’am, I meant no disrespect...the gentleman asked me to describe you... All due respect to him, he’s put me in an embarrassing circumstance... I thought it might be indiscreet...wanted to cause no offense, Ma’am!”

“Well, just do your job and describe me, then—I won’t be offended. Mr. Bergendahl’s an important man who must guard against unsolicited visitors—he’s just being careful. Go ahead and tell him what I look like.”

Oh, Angie Honey! I had to turn my head away and pretend to cough to conceal the grin that flashed onto my face! And I know what you’re thinking: a shameful instance of failing to maintain my playacting front! But you had to be there! An icy-miened hanging judge would’ve laughed at the deskman’s twitching cheeks! Plus Stevie starts speaking on the phone so loud I can almost make out the words and, in his haste to bring the receiver back to his ear, the deskman butterfingers it, drops it on the desk.

And then the deskman’s saying: “Sir, there’s no problem here... I dropped the phone, I apologize... No, Sir! There’s not a robbery going on—no commotion here! Yes, of course... She’s wearing a leopard dress... a pink shirt... Yes, Sir, I think her hair’s a wig... What?”

OK, now I sense Stevie might be going too far; it wouldn’t do to give the game away...

“Her stockings, Sir?” And here the deskman turns to the fiftyish woman, saying: “I think something’s funny... He wants to know what kind of stockings she’s wearing!”

“Uh, begging your pardon, Ma’am,” he quickly adds turning towards me. “I can’t be held responsible for what Mr. Bergendahl’s asking me to tell him...”

And then, turning back to the woman: “Will you please take the phone, Claudia? I’m not going to do this!”

Before Claudia can take the phone I say, “Sir, here’s my company ID—just tell Mr. Bergendahl, then this will be over.” I’d already fished my ID from my purse for the purpose of eventually treating the deskman to some brain-straining contradiction—always good for a laugh. Now I’m forced to use it prematurely...

With a gesture of impatience—because he’s beginning to wonder if he’s being toyed with, thanks to Stevie’s pushing the envelope too much (Doesn’t he always?)—the deskman brings the phone back to his mouth and says: “Mr. Bergendahl, she’s handed me her ID. That’s right... It says that she’s an attorney at [____]. Sir, it’s her picture. Her name’s Ella Jody Wishingrand. I wasn’t stalling, Sir! I would’ve done this to begin with had you requested it. We’re not in the habit of asking for the IDs of visitors of our esteemed guests at the Essex House, Sir. Yes, Sir, she’s on her way up.”

The deskman stares at my ID for a moment longer, then back at me; obviously, he’s perplexed by the contrast between my present appearance and that of myself in the ID photo, where I’m dressed immaculate New York corporate in my Bergdorf suit. (Remember how I beat cha to that bargain?) Choosing to be annoyed at the man’s presumptuous look, I say with calm coldness: “Sir, I do not feel it behooves you, as an employee of a world class hotel, to concern yourself with matters that are none of your business. I will not tolerate being stared at in that way.”

“Uuhhh...” is all he can manage, looking for all the world like he’d dearly love to sink into the floor.

“That’s hardly a response that does you credit, Sir,” I say, regarding him with distaste. Ha ha! He’s completely forgotten to wonder if he’s being toyed with; he’s suddenly in a waking nightmare and is only wishing it to end; and that’s what he gets for being rude from the get-go—that’s what he gets for treating me to shoo-away impulses, thrusting phones at me, seeking to not speak to me! Now he’s fully aware of the fact that he has no idea what he’s dealing with; now he’s unable to compute the contrasting evidence concerning yours truly; now he isn’t going to venture to even so much as blink, lest I get really riled!

Oh, Honey! What a nice aphrodisiacal way to kick off the festivities! Pranking always wets my pinkling, makes me juicy and loose! Being the center of attention in the lobby of the Essex simply because of my clothes? Ha, and acting the opposite of my look? Being Miss Corporate in intonation, mannerisms, and carriage while decked out in polyester trash? Ooooo! It’s pure scrumptious prepping-of-flowerpuss-for-pollination fun!

So I’m on my way to the elevator bank when it occurs to lil’ Miss MoodShift me that my dealings with the deskman have been too one-dimensional: it won’t do to only be a girl who’s annoyed at the treatment I’ve received. So I do an about-face, stroll back to him with a smile, place a five dollar bill on the desk, and say quite sweetly, “Notwithstanding your shortcomings, this is for your trouble, Sir. I trust you’ll work on your manners a bit? Have a nice day.”

Oh, Angie! The look of fear on the deskman’s face as I approached him; the flinching backwards impulse that half-seized his body when I extended my hand (As if he thought I might slap his face!); the wind-gone-out-of him expression of utter surrender and relief when my gentle intonation was heard and the five dollars materialized... ’Twas money very well spent!

OK, so let’s get me upstairs:

When Stevie opens the door to his room he bursts out laughing at first sight of me, and I say: “Hey, it’s not like you to slip out of character! I’m trailer trollop and you’re trailer slob! It would never occur to a trailer slob to laugh at a trailer trollop: they’re of one and the same world, cut from the same cloth!” Of course, I’m doing a wee bit o’ giggling on account of his acid wash jeans (The worst thing anyone could wear, right? He purchased them special for our trailer romp; they were tossed in the trash afterwards, where they belong!) and torn tank top...

“Chide me for something and then turn around and do it yourself?” he says in response to my amusement at his jeans. “That’s pure girl logic in all of it’s self-contradictory glory!” Isn’t Stevie the sweetest? He’s lobbed me a pitch, straight over the middle of the plate, and is waiting for the home run...

“But, Stevie dear, you’re overlooking the very obvious fact that it’s logical for us girls to be illogical, because it keeps men off-balance, forever guessing what we mean, never knowing what to expect! We say one thing and do the opposite; then we say another thing and stick by it religiously—for awhile, that is, ’til we decide to do the opposite of it after all! There’s no predictable pattern, and that’s how we want it! It’s our way of making sure men keep spinning their thought-wheels in vain efforts to decipher our reasoning and discover how to please us! It’s our way of countering the male impulse to sit down with us and explain what’s what! If we refuse to comprehend what’s what, choosing instead to go off on an illogical rendering of how we view the matter, then what can men do besides fling their arms up in resignation and allow us to remain the fickle, flighty, finicky, whimsical, mood-driven creatures we are? Logical illogicalness is the best way to maintain our freedom and independence! We end up getting our way precisely because we refuse to accord reason enough of a reality to control us!”

“Very impressive,” Stevie says with sarcasm. “I wholeheartedly agree that us poor reason-constrained males are like monkeys in a pitch black room full of marbles—ceaselessly falling on our behinds, getting nowhere—when we come up against the eternal question: ‘Is it possible to understand women?’ But you’ve forgotten something, Miss Vain: the smarter males deal with that question by simply skipping it and giving you what you most want and will never admit that you want, and that’s discipline! Yes, you silly females get so lost in your vanity that imagination and reality blurs and you can’t tell the difference, and then you’re in need of some firm grounding in physical actuality to put fantasy and actuality back in their proper places; and, just so long as us males routinely give you that, you’ll be our devoted slaves! So get in here (He seizes me by the nape of my neck and pushes me before him into the room.) and receive the discipline you crave!”

“So you admit that you mentally insufficient males, being incapable of comprehending us, must resort to brute force to subdue us? That’s a pretty shoddy solution! It reeks of inferiority-fueled compensation!” I spout this while being held against the wall of the entryway...

“I always tell women I’m baffled by women: it flatters them, inclines them to being more compliant. Not that you have much choice at the moment,” he laughs, continuing to press me against the wall, cupping both of my nether cheeks in his palms, squeezing with appreciation...

“Actually, it’s a typical male way of escaping responsibility! To wit: if a man informs us he doesn’t understand women, then the implication is he isn’t going to make an effort to do so, and also that he’s always going to use it as an excuse when lapses of communication occur!” So saying, I squirm to incline him to grasp me more firmly...

Naturally, the preliminary banter continues, but I’ll skip the remainder (As well as allow myself to have the last word!) in the interest of moving this along...

Soon enough Stevie’s seated on the couch with his pants off—swilling a beer, putting on an uncouth leer, availing himself of assorted crude comments; in short, faithfully acting the part of trailer slob. As per my request, he commands me to 1) pour myself a glass of Scotch, 2) light a cigarette and dangle it from my mouth, and 3) pace about smoking and drinking while doing an inept striptease. OK, I know what you’re thinking: what’s a fit and toned aerobics and yoga princess like myself doing with a glass of Scotch and a cigarette? But, hey, I’m willing to make sacrifices for the sake of playing a role to the hilt! What sort of trailer trollop would I be without liquor and a smoke? The atmospheric effect of these props, plus the all-around cheapness of my get-up and my ridiculously clumsy dancing (Yes, me: dancing badly!), such that I’m pitching hither and thither... Damn, Girl! It was as if some of that Scotch had been poured into my pinkling, so blazing hot and bothered, aflush of face, did I become! And it’s true one often feels like what one wears, is it not? Well, I was wearing trashy clothes and two very bad habits, and therefore was feeling fabulously like an uneducated vice-ridden teen with no care whatsoever for the future, only mindful of indulging self-destructive tendencies in the here and now! It was a vacation from being a health conscious career girl! It’s something you’re definitely going to have to try for yourself—you won’t regret it one bit!

So I take a swig from the glass and a drag from the smoke and put the smoke back in my mouth while setting the glass down; then I pull my top over my head and kick my shoes off while beginning to slip out of the skirt. Ooooo! I can’t begin to describe the delight of feeling my ass-cheeks pop into view as I trip over the skirt and reach for the wall to steady myself! I am, indeed, an unprincipled tramp with no pride performing for a slob in a trailer somewhere in a country place; I am, indeed, an ignorant high school drop-out compensating for life below the poverty line with a cheap display of the only assets I possess! And then my skirt’s on the floor, such that I’m only wearing the torn pink thigh-highs...

What follows? Well, this is very important—I’d told Stevie it was important, and he didn’t disappoint! The moment I’m standing there all hot and squishy and tingly in nothing but the stockings and wig and still tugging on the cigarette, Stevie springs from the couch, picks up one of my shoes, and shouts, “Shameless hussy! There you are all gussied up like a whore and drunk and smoking like one and, by God, now you’re going to be punished like one!” So saying, he seizes me by the nape of the neck with one hand and by the left cheek of my ass with the other and rather roughly compels me to circle around to the back of the couch and bend over it. “Give me that!” he says, taking the cigarette from my mouth and crushing it out in a dish; then he loudly announces, “I say it again: if you’re going to behave like a hayloft harlot in heat, then you’re going to be disciplined like one! Yes, I’m going to give you some religion you won’t forget, Godless strumpet! No modesty—no morals—no decency! You’re a fine piece of work! Puffed up with pride, flaunting your body! So pleased with yourself and the lust you inspire! Laughing at the good men you lead astray! But not for long! You’re going to wish you went to Sunday school and learned how to behave with decorum, once I’m through with you! You’re not going to be painting your face until it screams ‘Whore!’ anymore! You’re not going to swill liquor again! I’m going to make a right proper lady out of you, whatever it requires!” Having finished this fine speech, Stevie commences flailing at my behind with the shoe while shoving my head into the cushions, his hand still gripping the back of my neck.

A torrent of blows raining down on my behind as I’m being regaled with insults that are actually compliments: how can I begin to describe the streams of stimulation racing through me, throbbing in my veins? I’m turning-inside-out dizzy with arousal! My dear! I doubt I’ve ever wanted to be plowed more desperately! (OK, as you’ve so sagely pointed out in the past, each time I have sex it seems I’m declaring: “I was heated to a degree previously unknown!,” “I never gushed like that before!,” “He made me taste of heaven like no man before!,” and the like. But what can I say? I exist in the sex-present; each experience erases the one before it; if I’m a bit silly with my tendency to exaggerate, then so be it! I make no apologies! Each time I make hay, I want it to be like I’ve glimpsed God!)

And Stevie’s priceless! Abandoning all pretense of being motivated by morality, he succumbs to my charms and reveals his true intentions, shouting: “So I see you’re all lubricated for me, twitchy-assed wench! A warm wet open passageway hungering for a hammering! No need for saliva or butter to wet you up! What a hot-twatted trollop!” And, with that, he shoves his shaft inside me, begins pummeling the back end of pussy something fierce—really roughly! Of course, brute force isn’t the way to get me to flood—slug-fests irritate rather than stimulate me! I’m clawing and biting at the couch cushions and hissing, thinking I’d like to get some retaliation with a scratch!

Of course, Stevie slows down—it’s gentle-firm, lingering, thrusts now—I can feel him savoring me; I grip him tight inside; I undulate, not only there but seemingly all over! Then he’s being uncouth, pummeling me, again! Ha! Am I enraged or enraptured? ’Tis difficult to tell! Then slow and savorish, vibrating me way up inside my tummy, again! Oh, Angie Doll! What a la petite mortie-mort seizes me! Plus Stevie and I are nearly in perfect synchronization! He shoots me full of hot milk soon after I’m squishy and moaning! I’m swooning melting laughing all lissomish into the cushions!

Naturally, more fun follows (A room at the Essex is hardly going to be used for only one flutter-gush of my pleasure-treasure!), but I’m breaking this off 1) ’cause po’ lil’ trailer trollop me’s jus’ plumb tuckered out, and 2) I’m very responsibly going to turn in early so I can be at work all chipper and spry and eager to be of assistance to you in the realization of your worthy project!

Don’t cha worry ’bout a thing, Hon’: we’ll show nasty Martin what girl vengeance is! We’ll ignite him with yearning for you and then slam the door shut, see to it he thrashes in the fire without being able to quench it! We’ll fill his head to bursting with tantalizing images of you, then deprive him of the means of dissipating them! Yes, he’s going to swallow the dregs of unrequited desire and want to die!

’Til the morn’, then! Nighty-night!

Your,

Titillated&TuckeredOutTrailerTrollop

II.3
Angie to Ella
Tuesday, July 1, 2003 11:27 AM

Thanks so much, Darlingest! The way you sidled up to Martin in the hall with a face full of sympathy after I flung him into tumult was divine; and the way he visibly entrusted his emotional well-being to you was even more so! Plus the polite restraint you imposed with your body language, to prevent him from considering the possibility—in his desperation—of overstepping the boundaries of acquaintanceship! I was peering from around the corner and saw everything before you entered his office, where I trust you continued to handle him such that he was under no illusions about you being a rebound girl! Yes, our girl-vigilante project’s unfolding nicely! I can’t wait to hear what went on in there!

But now let me tell what went on in there when it was Martin and sweet lil’ me. He’s at his desk and I’m seated in a chair not far from his side, as we’re both perusing Rikert’s latest changes to the [____] merger. Naturally, I allow my hemline to ride up my thighs: the scoot forward move without holding onto one’s dress always works wonders: a quick slide up, lots of stocking-sheathed leg instantly exposed. And then I cross my legs and raise the knee of the upper leg quite high, such that poor Martin suddenly has a panty shot (black lace, semi-see-through!) blatantly staring him in the face—ha ha! ’Twas precious comical to die for, the struggling-to-not-look embarrassment on his face! Pages must be turned to continue reviewing the document and this allows me to reach across the said document, over his outstretched arm, to turn a page and—lo!—when I bring my hand back again I swish my fingers across his wrist to impart some mischievous sparks! His hand twitches in response; an inner wave of botheredness engulfs him and he can’t help but turn to me with a questioning look—a look I play at being oblivious of. Nor do I relent: a slow uncross of my legs results in that rasping-of-the-stockings sound (electric sandpaper!) that drives men nuts (I feel him start at it: half in pleasure, half in pain!) and also causes my right leg, quite by accident, to lightly brush him; plus I’m flinging my head back and fiddling with my hair while thrusting out my chest: it seems the top two buttons of my blouse have come undone and that there are two breasts in scarlet lace half-cups not more than a yard from his face! Yes, Martin’s starting to look uncomfortable, pleased, and perplexed all at once: he doesn’t seem to be certain his good fortune’s for real (I’ve always been unwaveringly professional, never overtly familiar, with him.), but I’m sure he’s beginning to dare to hope it is! He doesn’t seem to be able to trust the evidence of his senses, but I’m sure he wants the evidence to continue to mount! And the evidence does continue to mount, count on it! Especially, my Dear, when I contrive to drop my pen on the floor, and then must needs exit my seat and kneel down to retrieve it.

As I always say, put me in a room with a man and allow me to maneuver him onto the floor with me beside him in a dress, and he’ll be whatever I want him to be! So I kneel to pick up my pen and, in so doing, quite forget to guard against my dress riding up in back, such that half my behind’s kissing the open air: how vividly I feel his stare fasten onto my cheeky-cheeks! And then I suddenly sit in a heap with my hemline, I don’t exaggerate, above my stocking tops in front. I look straight into his discomfited eyes all innocent and say in a sweet voice, “Martin, why don’t we work on the floor—I’m tired and it’s much more relaxing.” Then I immediately lean forward, causing my blouse to hang down at the top and my breasts to spill into view again. Ha ha! At this point, Martin seems to be in a trance—a troubled trance. “OK,” he sputters, clumsily gathering the papers and coming to where I am, struggling hard to avert his eyes but not entirely succeeding in doing so. After all, I’m sitting upright again and my hemline’s been nudged even higher, with the lower edges of my panties creeping into view.

Martin’s uncomfortable with sitting too close to me but, as we both need to see the document, he can’t sit very far away: such a dilemma for the poor man! But then… Ella, something unexpected occurs: I find myself experiencing a pang of sympathy on his behalf! Why? Because he, contrary to my expectations, hasn’t been acting like a pompous self-assured clown! It’s cute, the way hesitation, bewilderment, and shyness are hovering about him, causing his hands—as he arranges the papers on the carpet—to ever so slightly tremble. And, along with my pang of sympathy, there’s an inner shimmer—a delicate upwelling flush. And, damn! What is it with us females? Why does sympathy often pave the way for desire?

I fully admit it: ’twas shamefully remiss of yours truly to commence to get caught up in, allow myself to be affected by, my own weavings of seduction! On the other hand, it worked out very well, because I immediately punished Martin for it. “Kill it off!” I commanded myself. “Remember his ghastly treatment of Linda, stick to the plan! No mercy! Time to strike!”

Listen: had Linda’s horror tale of being unceremoniously dumped by Martin, despite her copious tears and pleading and love for him, not been in the forefront of my thoughts I might very well have allowed Mommy Nature to take her course and gazed upon him sweetly and clasped his hands, by way of indicating he should pull me close and kiss me. As it was, I suddenly envisioned myself being duped into trusting him—being subsequently mistreated, disrespected—and therefore became doubly ruthless, close to angry in a personal way. Ignoring the manner in which he was wrestling with discomfort—informing myself his show of vulnerability was nothing but a cold and calculating act—I sent sympathy packing, proceeded to inflict the damage I came to inflict.

“So you think you can sit there leering, with the most disgusting—presumptuous, insulting—smirk on your face, simply because my clothes are momentarily out of order!” I shout, abruptly rising to my feet and slapping my dress down. “This is a professional situation and you behave like a pig! I’m not going to stand for such behavior, and you can go to hell!”

A look of panic leaps onto his face; not allowing myself to be swayed by it, I abruptly wheel about and—without a glance back—exit his office.

An admission, Ella: the reverberations from my display of anger were trembling me from my ankles to the top of my head! I wasn’t close to fully being the level-headed, vengeance-inspired, justified-cause-protected girl I’d set out to be!

Fortunately, you were waiting! What comfort I derived from your presence! Martin follows me into the hall to doubtless seek to plead I’ve misread the situation; he sees me whispering in your ear; you glance at him with pity; then I stomp around the corner, vanish from his sight: I, so to speak, transfer him to you. Then I creep back to watch and, my oh my, you’re putting on a very convincing look of empathy!

But, do tell! What went on in his office? I’m bouncing off the walls with impatience to hear!

Your,

ConnivingWitchBitch (or should I say: ConnivingWitchBitchWannabe?)

II.4
Ella to Angie
Tuesday, July 1, 2003 1:54 PM

Angie, I’ll state it outright: Martin was in no way deserving of the panic you plunged him into! You’ve traumatized the wrong man! Linda’s view of the matter of their breakup—sincere and guileless though it probably is—doesn’t accord with the facts!

Here’s what happened:

As you know, I immediately presented myself to Martin as a sympathetic observer. Of course, I was ignorant of the details of what had transpired in his office—had no idea you’d become so extreme—but the degree of his disturbance spoke volumes: his eyes were bleeding with worry!

What began as playacted sympathy shortly became authentic sympathy: no man as upset as Martin was could possibly be the pompous unfeeling manipulative bastard of Linda’s interpretation of the truth!

Angie, I found myself wanting to get to the bottom of the matter in sincerity, instead of as part of an act. I went fishing in earnest, told Martin you were prone to excess of emotion and rash behavior and that sometimes you didn’t read situations as they may have occurred: how he clung to me with his eyes when I made this statement! He sure wanted to discuss the matter; he needed to discuss it!

We enter his office and he’s uncertain how to begin: he says he may have looked at you more than he should have in a way he shouldn’t have and then pauses, hesitant to reveal how much of yourself you were revealing. So I help him along: I say you’re given to exhibitionistic behavior and that you sometimes become annoyed at the responses your exhibitionistic behavior gives rise to; then I ask him if you were showing off. He looks at me and barely nods, quickly glancing away. And I believed him—that is, believed his confusion was authentic. Then he says, “Why all these misunderstandings with women? I adore women, mean them no harm! I’m actually a nice guy!”

And that’s just it: Martin is a nice guy! I’ll skip all the halting words and uncomfortable pauses that led up to him speaking of Linda—all of my exertions to make him comfortable with speaking about her. What he ended up saying was that he felt he did, and still does, love Linda but that she’s made it impossible for him to be with her, because he happens to have some self-respect. Hints were dropped as to Linda being extremely disturbed below her cute and amiable exterior—as to her rages having a quality of helplessness about them. He said that, as near as he could make out, relationships were a means for her to externalize inner conflict; that her inner war quickly became a war with the man in her life. He hastened to add that there was no premeditated malice on her part; that the act of becoming close to another triggered violent responses over which she seemed to have no control—it was as if the said responses happened despite herself. She often imagined affronts where there were none, became suspicious when there was no cause; there was a quality of innocence and naiveté about her accusations and subsequent storming. He said he didn’t mind a bit of friction in relationships—that he wasn’t above being somewhat difficult now and then himself—but that Linda seemed guided by a blind impulse to plunge relationships into sanity-straining strife. He said he wishes her the best—that he hopes she finds happiness with someone—but that he couldn’t endure being with her any longer. And I believe him.

So—now don’t get annoyed: you had to be there, and you weren’t there—I confessed to Martin your behavior was revenge motivated; I… Now, Angie, please don’t be screaming while you read this! In short, I outright informed him that you put on your provocative display so you’d have an excuse to reprimand him. I also apologized for our inexcusably rash behavior.

And Martin? Gratitude was his overwhelming response. His relief was palpable in the room. Angie, he’s an authentic good-hearted man! And he isn’t weak-willed, either! We ended up chatting for quite awhile, very friendly, and laughing. And I suggested that perhaps you ought to make amends: he waved that away immediately, indicating such was for you to decide. Mostly, he reaffirmed his thanks for my confession.

But, hey girl, he likes you—admires the manner in which you were prepared to right a perceived wrong done to another woman; he said that, if he was a woman, he hoped he’d be ready to do the same. Also, Martin is neither stupid nor a coward. You do recall Linda’s details of some of their escapades? Martin, I can assure you, is a man who appreciates an attractive and spirited girl and knows how to treat her! Linda may have some very nasty demons tucked away in her hidden places (I reaffirm, I believe Martin.), but who denies that she’s the cutest—nay, the most beautiful—dishling on the premises, even edging us from the top position (and we know that’s no mean feat)? In other words, Martin has good taste and he’s daring: should we allow him to go to waste? I think not!

So I expect you, WitchBitch, to march straight to Martin’s office and be a nice girl and make amends and get to hinting at the possibility of some fun! He, I can assure you, will be a perfect gentleman and display an amount of tact that will surprise you, considering your former idea of him. In other words, I’d almost bet my life he won’t allow you to feel guilty.

So, do it! Get down to Martin’s office and be the blithe charmer! And then… Well, I’m pretty sure you’re going to be properly pleasured by him pretty soon, and that you’re going to owe me!

Your,

MollifyingMatchmakingMiss

_______________

LIAISONS FOR LAUGHS:
ANGIE & ELLA'S SUMMER OF DELIRIUM
Chapter II, Trailer Trollop Romp
& Martin's Comeuppance

Copyright © 2009
by Robert Scott Leyse
All rights reserved.

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