A Tale of No One – Chapter 1 – [MF] [BDSM] [Romantic]

DRAMATIS PERSONAE
 
Alix
 
In all her twenty-nine years on earth, Alix had done very little to distinguish herself beyond the typical French woman. It is true she had managed to turn an art history degree from the university of Rennes into a creative director position at a New York ad agency, and also her brown eyes were almond shaped, almost, but not quite oriental, but beyond that she was not very different from your average young Parisienne or Toulousaine. Some might argue she was quintessential. After all she had every quality plus that special ‘je ne sais quoi’ required of every Gallic femme. Her height was average; her hair shorter than her American compatriots, less fussed with and somehow more perfect for the ignorance: Coquettish, natural, feminine without looking high-maintenance. Her legs were long and thin without being useless and her hips were feminine to the core. They were, as described drunkenly and in confidence by her male co-workers, childbearing. Her derriere was ample but well suited to her thighs. Above all, she had the most French of womanly features, something practically unique to the Frankish sex: Pert, tiny, high-pointed breasts. Just enough to satisfy a bra, but not so much that you needed undergarments in a sundress. Like all French women they would grow with the children but for now they were the breasts of youth. For now, they existed only for sensation.  

Between her breasts, one could see a little rib, but she was no waif. In that little valley between her breasts she would flush when embarrassed. It would turn a beet red if she thought herself the fool, or if she felt something, anything akin to pleasure. Across the breastbone there her skin was so thin that it would become quite hot to the touch if she felt excitement or a hint of anger, as often occurred in the dirty subways of New York.  

She was from Brittany, and like all Breton stock she came off as distant, world-weary and by garrulous American standards, statuesque and unapproachable. But she did know how to laugh, and if you could make her laugh, Alix would cover her mouth like a Japanese school girl and giggle. It was an involuntary reflex, to raise her long, slender fingers to her mouth and cover it. To see this was to see Brigadoon. As quickly as it appeared in the mist it went away for another 100 years. If you were lucky, the burst of emotion embarrassed her enough to flash a wave of red in the valley of the Tetons. But mostly, one was not lucky.  

Alix had come to America for the same reason as millions before her: to make it, to squander her youth on the altar of Mammon for cash and have the things denied her Breton parents. The Americans had a deliriously detached word for this money, one that elevated it above the fray and made it sound like a grail or Greece’s ambrosia. What was it? Ah, yes. Capital. She had come to the temple of excess in search of capital, and maybe a little fun.  

In a scant 4 years she had done well and yet her secret desire, the reason she had chosen America over the drab, pear-shaped punters of London had yet failed to materialize. Alix had grown up on western films, on the promise of the west, of men as tall as they were arrogant. Alix had fallen for the dream of the American ideal man. Forget the cheating lotharios of France, she was raised on chiseled, roughhewn men of honor. Men who may not know a ‘fourchette a salade’ but would know decency, faithfulness and who had fuses shorter than her patience. Above all, the American men of her films were arrogant, but in a way that wasn’t cockiness. They were young like America was young; they didn’t have time for shyness or overwrought politesse. They were direct, earnest, honest. They chopped wood and worked with their hands. They knew what they wanted and they had no time for reticence.  

The men in the real United States were sadly anything but this. What arrogance existed was a kind of drunken boastfulness, born of frat house conquests and fear and ignorance of women. Even that was a rarity. Mostly there was an aw-shucks shyness that made it impossible to talk, let alone be intimate. Even worse, she, little Alix from Rennes, intimidated men twice her size and 10 times her wealth, because here she wasn’t the small shy girl, she was different. She was *Alix de Rennes*: foreign, cultured, exacting and all the other fetishes people assume about cultures not their own. Worst of all, and almost unforgivable in the states, she came off smarter than her paramours, and thus older than her years, and it made her bitter, distant and alone. All of her successes had brought her nothing but further away from a home she didn’t care for and closer to a dream she felt betrayed by.  
 
What conquests did occur were all instigated by her. Over time, enough time, pressure would build in Alix. Desire would take hold, usually with a little alcohol, and would manifest itself in a single night’s ill-advised dalliance. The worse the match, the better. Any chance of a continuance beyond the act was a deal breaker. Alix despised herself for her needs so she built a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy: Self-loathing built a cap upon her desires and held them in check until they became too strong, then they would burst forth in one night of vindictive passion with the most unsuitable candidate. This would feed the regret and loathing and the process would repeat itself.
 
 
This is who she was.
 

 
Robert
 

Robert Walden was not what anyone would call attractive. Neither tall nor short, neither fat nor thin, his physical presence was one of adequacy, nothing more. He had a large, brutish forehead, capped by thickish black hair he perennially slicked back. Below his forehead his blue-black eyes sat slightly crooked across his face. His mouth hung, through no fault of his own, in a sort of sneer, just below his broad, broken nose. It may have been a nice nose at one point in time but several fists had made it of three minds, with three different goals. It was almost a miracle the sections could work together to draw a breath.  

There was very little of Robert Walden that would be deemed beautiful, and yet he was undoubtedly attractive. Money helped. Being the CEO and Founder of WaldenStock kept him in high style, but it was more than that for he was attractive before he was rich. You see, Robert Walden didn’t care if you thought he was attractive. It was as simple as that. That was the furthest thing from his mind. He didn’t care if you thought him handsome, intelligent, or if you even liked him. He had no time for people that judged him, especially for something as superficial as looks, and he meant it. This gave him the kind of armor that beautiful people wish for and regular folk think beautiful people have.  

If Robert liked you he told you. If Robert wanted you he told you. If you rejected him, he didn’t lash out. He simply moved on. He had no time for pettiness, games or infighting. He took what was given to him and if it wasn’t, he didn’t want it. He had paid his dues ten times over in this world and been taught the hard lessons. He wasn’t there to teach, he wasn’t there to hand out dues. That was for other people, people who searched for grand lessons in this world. Robert knew there was no great lesson, no grand design. He knew there was only one go on the roller coaster. He truly understood this. And he committed fully to the idea that he would enjoy the entire ride, neither waxing nostalgic for the beginning of it nor fearing its end. Robert Walden was committed to holding his hands above his head and screaming at the top of his lungs as he plunged.  

He was no nihilist. He valued what he had and the life it gave him. Most of all he valued his friends. For a wealthy person he was unique this way. He did not see them as connections, or means to an end. He valued them for who they were and what they could make together. He also understood how awful this was for business so people had quickly learned: you could work with Robert or you could be his friend but one side would never visit the other. This allowed him a ruthless efficiency with business. He walked away from many deals because he wound up liking the person across the table. Rather than costing him, this had made him richer both in friends and in lucre, for friendship never interfered with tough business decisions, and the lifelong friends he made were as fiercely protective and loyal of him and his interests as he was of them and he was ever so protective. Robert was both a dangerous alleyway and the safest haven in a storm and he had a rare gift: He knew when to be which.  

 
This is who he was.
 

INTRODUCTION
 
Robert Walden strolled into the 8th floor offices of MediaRock on a lovely Tuesday afternoon in spring. He was expected. He gazed around. Like every ad agency Robert had met before them, MediaRock had littered images of his company around the office as a way to show what team players they were, how invested they were in WaldenStock as an idea, how they ‘got’ his company. Unlike the other companies, there wasn’t a cavalcade of sycophants waiting to laud him upon his egress from the elevator. This was refreshing. WaldenStock needed ideas, not yes men. Of course that could just be it was a small company (only 70 people) and they simply hadn’t had the sycophants to spare. Nonetheless, Robert liked what he observed. Young people worked close together, laughed at each other’s stories, lived a little. Personal art hung in the design section, there were women working in the development department. It was 3pm on the dot and some of them had already cracked open beers. Work is not everything. Tired drones lack creativity. Sexism breeds stale retreads. There was none of that here. People liked working here, he could tell. Robert had seen enough in these scant seconds to decide he would employ MediaRock. Unfortunately he still had a presentation meeting to sit through.
 
When someone finally got round to noticing him standing there, they made profuse apologies and scurried off to the back of the office. A tallish man with a shock of silver hair came walk-running up to greet him. This man was Charles Steinberg, chief partner of MediaRock. He was a friendly and fairly direct man himself. He knew that WaldenStock was the whale that would make his company. He knew Robert knew this. Such are the dances in the business world.
 
Robert was led into a large room with floor to ceiling windows on two sides. He sat at the head of a long oblong table. Someone brought him seltzer and a glass of ice. There, at the table he was introduced to producers who threw ideas at him, creatives who discussed ‘look and feel’ and design, Search optimizers who promised him more hits and more activity, technical people who discussed the meat and bones of the mobile apps and sites they prayed they would get to build for him. It was all quite good work and all quite exhausting. In the two hours and 20 people he met, everyone delivered their message. They all seemed ‘on point’, and while genuinely excited, almost too trained in their messaging. This was de rigeur.
 
Only two people out of 20 stood out. One, the young Development Lead named Piotr. Clearly Slavic, right down to his distaste for western pleasantries and rah-rah company cheerleading. He was honest and short in his assessments, often to the visible displeasure of his colleagues. He would allow his team-mates only a certain amount of building castles in the clouds before he doused their flames with a bit of cold reality. Robert liked him immediately.
 
The other was a not unattractive woman, French likely, perhaps Belgian, who plastered on a smile like the best of them, but her enthusiasm wasn’t genuine. It wasn’t that she disliked Robert or the work, but that there was something else, something unrelated that sucked the joy from her. It was visibly palpable. Her colors were muted. She toned down even the vibrancy of those around her. What ideas she had were good, but Robert found he didn’t hear them really. He couldn’t. Her sadness formed a baffle around her words. He found instead that he couldn’t stop looking at her. Her eyes were lilted, but weighted with a tiredness that dimmed their brightness. Her shoulders were broad and lovely but pulled inward, like a bastion. Her lips were attractive, but turned at the edges, like flowers about to wilt. The effect was that the whole of her was a wonderful painting hanging in a museum, and yet it hung within a frame that was crooked. It irritated Robert. It fascinated him and rankled him. How he wanted to straighten her frame.
 
Alix noticed his attentions. They were subtle, but Mr. Walden had an amazing ability to stare into one’s eyes as opposed to at them. People held the gaze back as long as they could, but all faltered. Even Charles. Alix didn’t even bother to return them. She had said her piece, presented her work and it had gone well. Really she could’ve left after that but it is rude to leave a meeting like that. So why did she feel his eyes upon her? She pulled her shoulders in instinctively. This seemed to make him stare more. She knew she was thinking irrationally. He was staring at all of them after all, and his eyes never looked at anything but her eyes, and still she felt like wilting under his gaze. This made her mad at herself. In an act of defiance against her own cowardice she straightened her posture and made a concerted effort to look Mr. Walden in the eye. He listened intently to Sophie discuss google analytics. Slowly he panned his head across the table and locked his eyes on Alix. He held it for a few seconds before a slight wry smile curled across his lips. Alix broke her gaze. Robert returned his gaze to Sophie.
 
 
The meeting ended, flesh was pressed and promises were made. When Robert embraced Alix’s hand there was nothing different. She felt a little humiliated with herself, angry that she had let this short, rough ogre of a man have this power over her, even though he didn’t know or care to have it. She felt her chest flush as it did, but he didn’t even notice. A final confirmation of her own stupidity. She sidled back behind the group and into her rightful place on the shadow of the crowd. When the scene broke Charlie led Robert to the elevator and pressed the button.
“Where are you staying, Mr. Walden?”  
“I am at the W.” He replied.  
“That is a very nice hotel. If you don’t mind, I would very much like to take you out to dinner tonight?”  
“No,” said Robert, “I insist you accompany me to dinner. My hotel has a very fine restaurant. I would be delighted if you came along.”

“Excellent.” replied Charles. “Shall we?”

“I would like it if Piotr and Alix joined us.”

“Uh, of course.” Replied Charles. “Do you mind if I ask why?”

“I want to talk with employees, if you will forgive me, that are not so invested in the corporate speak. I learn more about who I might be working with that way. And I hate it when only the top brass and closers get to enjoy the comped dinners instead of the folks who actually make the sausage. No offense.”

“None taken.” He replied. “We like to share the wealth here. I’ll ask them.”

“7 O’clock, then.” said Robert.

 
Charles pulled Piotr and Alix into his office and explained that they were about to have a very free, very important dinner.

“Piotr was invited?” asked Matthew Ryder, who, as the CTO was offended he wasn’t.

“Look,” replied Charles “He’s heard the whole spiel. He doesn’t need the CTO there. Piotr can answer any questions. It was his request.”
“But Piotr, no offense, you’re a bit direct, you know.”
“None taken. I hate bullshit.” Matthew put out his palms in an exasperated ‘see what I mean’ gesture.
“Matt, he was like that in the meeting. Clearly Walden liked it.”
“Okay, why Alix then?” He hated to be referred to in the third person. It was if she wasn’t even in the room.
“He wants to talk to people in the company who don’t sell for a living.” Matthew shrugged. “It’s a power play. Let him have it. This is a big company if we land it. You know what this means! Bonuses for everyone this year. Upgrades. Our name in Agency Spy.” Charles dismissed Piotr and Alix. “Dress nice tonight, you two. It’s a good restaurant.” Alix and Piotr exited.
“Charles,” Asked Matthew, making sure the door was closed. “Why Alix? I have some concerns.”
“She will be fine.”
“You don’t think he wants to fuck her, do you? Because I’m not down with winning that way.”
“No, neither am I.” He replied. “Besides, she’s a lovely woman but if that was what he wanted, well, you’ve seen our agency. Hell, in that meeting there were 4 or 5 girls younger and more sexy than her. You think a rich guy like him is going to pick Alix?”

Alix went home, showered and picked through her clothes. She loathed the idea of going, but she knew how important it was. She was to be the token woman, she should play the part. But if she was, she would play it her way. She picked out a white Brooks Brothers blouse, which she paired with a plum and gray herringbone wool pencil skirt. She paired this with black stockings and a black Cole Haan jacket. She pulled out a pair of patent leather 3 inch heels. She stared at them. Who was she wearing these for? Herself? They were sexy, but they didn’t make her feel sexy, at least not in this situation. Was she supposed to wear them, was that the expectation? What did Mr. Walden want? What did Charles want from her? She put them back in the shoe box and pulled out a pair of buckled kitten heels. They made her feel just sexy enough and they didn’t read like the footwear equivalent of a craigslist ad.

She arrived at the W to find all three of them at the bar, awaiting her. Charles greeted her with a customary double kiss. Robert Walden smiled, thanked her for coming and shook her hand. Piotr said ‘Hello’ and continued drinking. The Maître’d came over and seated them in a quiet corner booth.

Over drinks, they talked about business. Robert queried Piotr about his upbringing in Poland, what brought him to the states, why he liked MediaRock. Piotr was direct as usual.

“Poland was beautiful, but cold and where I was from very poor and ignorant. New York is very rich and ignorant, so I came here. MediaRock pays me well and lets me work from home. I have children and this is important for me. 3 days a week I work from home. I walk my children to school and I greet them at 4 when they are let out.” Alix watched Robert as he listened. She could see an imperceptible smile when Piotr discussed his family. Perhaps he had family himself.

Robert turned and asked Alix the same question.
“Brittany is wet in the winter and beautiful in the summer. Summer is short.”
“That’s not what I asked.” he replied. “What was your upbringing like?” His directness offended her. It didn’t help that his questions could be construed as too personal.
“Cold in the winter and beautiful in the summer.” She replied staunchly.
“And summer is short.” He replied. Her eyes burned. “Forgive me if my questions seem personal. I can be too forward sometimes. I only want to know because I am interested. Most people, I find, like to be asked about themselves.”
“Americans ask and answer too many personal questions.” She retorted. She could see Charles tense up. But she continued anyway. “They have no regard for privacy.”
“Well that’s a bit extreme, Alix.” Said Charles. “I think you meant to say-”

“She knows what she meant to say.” Said Robert. “She said it.” he turned his focus to Alix. “I apologize for the rudeness in the way I asked you about yourself, but I thank you for your reply. You have told me something about yourself. You have shared an opinion with me. I know a little more about you.”

Dinner came and the conversation warmed a little. Alix made careful study of Mr. Walden. He ordered wine for the table, another uniquely American trait, speaking for others. It was a southern wine, a rough-hewn, earthy wine. A drink for farmers. Charles and Alix sipped their glasses but Robert and Piotr drank in gulps. Not to say they downed the wine, in fact they drank no faster than her, but when they drank they did so in gulps. Piotr was mimicking Robert, smiling in a most un-Slavic way. Alix could tell he was charmed by this odd man. Why wouldn’t he be? He met Piotr’s frankness and rather than subtly ask him to tone it down, he saw the value in it. He saw the value in the man. He didn’t ask or expect Piotr to be anything other than who he was.

Perhaps she had misjudged him just a bit. He wore a suit well, she would give him that. Any man can have a tailored suit, but very few can look like they want to be in it. Most Americans wear suits to weddings, but they’d go to dinner in sweatpants if they could get away with it. Not Mr. Walden. He wore his charcoal grey suit like a leopard wears spots. And yet his hands were as rough as his face. They worked for a living at some point. The Knuckles had white scars cut across them. They looked as abused as that nose. That strange, bent, Picasso portrait of a nose. Guernica on a visage. Most men of his means would be ashamed and struggle through surgeries to straighten it out, but he clearly didn’t care. Perhaps it acted as a distraction from those blue-black pools he called eyes.
“…and I think on that note, it is time for us to call it a night. Are you sure we cannot foot this bill, Robert?”
“No, I insist. Your company has been payment enough.” Before Alix knew it, they were standing and exchanging goodbyes.
“Thank you and I will be in touch next week with my decision.” Said Robert, taking Charles’ hand.
“Piotr, it was an absolute pleasure talking with you. I will take your advice the next time I am in New York.” Piotr furiously pumped his hand. Robert turned to Alix and took her hand.
“Alix, you’ve talked so little in the last hour I was hoping you might stay a while longer.” The invitation startled her. She wasn’t expecting it and she pulled her hand away. She was instantly ashamed. She regained her composure and screwed on her best plastic smile. “How rude of me. I apologize.”
“No it is quite alright. I admit it was rather forward.”
Charles moved closer in, cutting between the two of them. He stood a good 6 inches taller than Robert. “I’m sorry if there’s been a misunderstanding, Mr. Walden.” He replied. “We didn’t intend… that is I don’t want there to be any confusion about what this- tonight is.”
“No confusion at all.” replied Mr. Walden. “I merely wanted and want to get to know Ms. Alix better. I don’t even know her last name.” Charles searched for something to say.
“I am put in an odd position here.” He is put in an odd position? Thought Alix.
“How about we remove any ambiguity at all.” Replied Mr. Walden. “Congratulations, Charles, you have my business. I will draft up the papers next week. Now I am going to ask Alix again to stay for another drink with me – she and you can know that her answer will not affect my decision to go with MediaRock one way or another. The dinner was business and that business is concluded. I would now like to have a drink, separate of business with this lovely woman-” He once again took her hand “With you, Alix, at your pleasure.”
“You don’t have to do this.” Said Charles to Alix.

Up until that very moment she had been ready to decline. She didn’t desire to be stared at any more. But Charles’ naked attempt to ‘defend’ her honor angered her. Once again her pride welled up.
“I shall stay” she said as she sat back down in the booth. Charles looked at her as if to ask her if she was certain, then satisfied that she was, followed Piotr out into the spring night.
Mr. Walden sat slowly back down. He unbuttoned his coat and placed a hand languidly across the back of the booth. He was directly across the table from her. He smiled a broad, toothy proud grin.

“Thank you very much for joining me.”
“What is it you want of me, Mr. Walden?” Alix folded her arms, crossed her legs and stared defiantly at him.
“What is it you think I want?” He replied. He took a large gulp of his wine, poured a new glass and offered to pour one for her. She placed her hand over the top of the glass.
“Honestly?” she replied.
“Honestly. I am a man of my word. The business is MediaRock’s. Nothing you say now will affect that. I separate business and personal affairs completely.”
“Honestly I think you want to take me upstairs and sleep with me.” He lifted his eyebrows and took a sip of his wine. “Does my directness shock you?”
“Not at all. Please, continue.”
“I think you think I am fearful of your position of power over my company or enamored enough with your money to do it. I’m sure many women are. But I assure you, I am not one of them. I think you are an oversexed juvenile cockmonster who is not used to hearing ‘no’!” She took a gulp of her wine and placed the glass down on the table with some force. Robert smiled.
“First,” he replied. “May I say what a delight it is to hear a Frenchwoman say the word ‘cockmonster’. I wonder, would you say it again for me?”
“Certainly not!” she replied a bit shocked.
“Oh, please.”
“No.” she said, only this time it was more of a confused rejection. “Why?”
“Why not?” He replied. “I’ve never been called one before, and certainly never in a delightfully French accent. Your accent is subtle, but with that word it’s purely Maurice Chevalier.”
“Come now.” She said with equal parts bemusement and annoyance.
“Just once more.” He begged. “Indulge me.” Alix felt an embarrassment, but not the unpleasant kind. Her chest flushed red for a moment as she turned her head to the side and rolled her eyes. Robert, seeing she was about to relent, leaned forward, clasped his hands together and waited.
“This is stupid.” she replied.
“I agree. Profoundly so.”
“You are stupid.” She said, wagging a finger at him.
“*Certainement. Je suis ta bête noire.*”
“You should hear how you sound to me. You speak French like a German!”
“I’ll be sure to tell my French teacher, Herr Schmidt.”
“Oh, enough.” She replied, folding her arms again. Robert merely sat, awaiting the word.
“Really?” She asked. He nodded, a broad, mischievous grin forming on his face. ‘Even his teeth are crooked’ she thought.
 
“Cockmonster.”
 
Robert burst into laughter, rolled back in his seat and clapped his hands. “Delightful!”

He continued laughing. It was not a mean-spirited laugh. It was quite the opposite in fact: it was the rarest of laughs, the infectious kind. The patrons in the booths on either side of them turned to stare. Alix was cowed by this at first. The patrons scowling eyes looked to him, then her. This made her retreat a little. But then the eyes went back to him, and rather than deepen their scowls, the expressions lightened. Such is the nature of a good infectious laugh. His joy passed a little to them. Rather than making their night a little worse, some way, somehow, he had made it a tiny bit better with his intrusion. The eyes returned to Alix, but with approving looks, as if acknowledging it was she who had told something so spectacularly funny it passed from table to table.

Alix allowed herself a little laugh. Robert offered her some more wine. Alix relented. He poured a small glass for her followed by a taller one for himself.
“I can assure you.” He replied, after catching his breath. “I am not a cockmonster. As to your second point, you mention my money. So you know my net worth then, I suppose. Uncouth to discuss matters of money but we are both businesspersons.”
“So you think I can be bought? Is that it?” She asked, surprised and a little insulted by the frankness of what she presumed, was a proposal.
“Oh Alix,” he replied, realizing the indelicacy of his words. “I mean nothing of the sort.” He placed his hands flat on the table. “I mention it because you know that I have the kind of wealth that could afford me as many women as I wanted, if I so wanted. I have the kind of money that buys limitless numbers of girls.” He casually sipped from his glass. “Or boys for that matter. But I don’t care for that. Tell me, look at that bar. Do you see anything unusual?”
Alix scanned the bar. There was the normal crowd at a fancy hotel. Couples on vacation, Rich folks meeting for a date, corporate types indulging on the corporate card, but nothing unusual.
“No.”
“Oh really? He replied. “Come on. Look a bit harder. Look at who is drinking alone.”

She studied the bar again. There were a few men in their suits, rumpled ties and sport coats thrown over the back of the chair, halfway into their night, and then… then there were two women, at opposite ends of the bar. They had the same look about them. Stunning women in their late 20’s nursing a drink ¾ full. Hair done up to perfection. Legs crossed. Black hose, sheer and expensive, but also loose at the knees and ankles in the way only stockings and garters behaved. Lipstick a subtle shade redder than a wife would wear.

“So you see them now.” he said. “If I wanted sex tonight, I could just have it. But that doesn’t interest me. There are arguments to be made about the modern state of the high-end service industry but for me it reeks of exploitation. And mere sex is a young man’s game.” Alix relaxed her posture a bit, but the moment of levity had passed and she could feel the inertia, the futility of her sadness coming back.
“So what do you want, then? I am tired.”
“How do you describe what cannot be described? I could paint it better than explain it. Emotions are hard to put into words. I guess the best way to say it is I want to share an experience. I would like to share it with you.”
“Drugs?”
“No, but it can feel like it.”
“Would you please just get to the point?” Robert chuckled at her frustration.

“Yes, I should just come out with it. I suspect it’s a waste of time but something about you makes the effort worth the risk, n’est pas?” Alix allowed a slight smile. To be so desired, to spark such interest, it was very hard not to be flattered, even if she was unsettled by the whole thing. Her chest flushed red. Robert noticed. This was the third time he had been granted the pleasure of seeing it.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Alix. You have no doubt heard this many times from men and I suspect a few women. Yes, you are beautiful, but if I may be honest with you, there is a sadness in you. Something heavy and sullen and I imagine lifelong. And it hangs like an albatross around your neck. It clouds your light and hugs your vibrant body like a drab grey sweater.”

The sadness inside her responded as if he had summoned it. It leapt out of her stomach and crawled across her body. It worked its way to her fingertips and mouth and dulled her senses. It pulled the color from her lips and tightened the edges like a knife. It fed upon her energy and pulled her like a magnet down onto her seat.
“So you see it. You’re very observant.” She said, looking away. Her eyes filled. She could feel one very large tear forming. By sheer force of will, she refused to let it fall.
“I am and I am not.” He replied. “Everyone thinks their sadness is unique, Alix. But it’s terribly commonplace. The problem is people come to let it define them. Then they depend on it for a sense of self. I, myself came to cherish my depression. After a while it was all I knew. This will sound awful and trite but I came to long for its embrace. Feeling it wrap me up, deaden my senses and drag me down came to be very comforting to me. But it was a lie, of course. A lie no amount of words or talk could ever eradicate. For me, it was a defense mechanism against admitting I was not who I should be, that I was not doing what I desired. What is it for you?”
“Nothing.” She replied, staring at the table.
“It’s most definitely something.” He replied. “How else can you explain how a smart, vibrant woman- one who has found a modicum of success on one of the hardest places on earth to do so – could be so… so… disappointed. I would like very much to know why.”
“And when you know why, what would you do then?” She resented him. She resented that in 5 minutes he had seen through her facade, and with the ease of a surgeon, pulled her depression out and placed it in front of her, for both to examine.
“Use it. Use it as fuel for desire. Force it to give to you rather than take from you.”
“So you wish to give me the animal ravishing that I’ve been missing my whole life?” She sneered. She wanted to lash out at him. But mostly she wanted to leave.
“Has that ever worked for you before, honestly? Even once?”
“Then what do you want from me?” She begged.
Robert saw the pain in her eyes. He had hurt her deeply, something he had no desire to do. Like a doctor with no bedside manners, he meant well but had only frightened and hurt the patient. At the same time her fire and rawness pushed the dullness of her depression right away like a breeze blowing smoke off a fire. He decided to continue, partially to make himself feel better, but mostly to explain, so she could have an understanding of his transgression. He knew he had to tread cautiously.

“I admit to baser desires, Alix. I have them same as you. Just as you try not to be ruled by them, so to do I, in my own way.” He placed his hand on the table, palm up and opened it, in a gesture for her to take it if she wanted. There was no expectation, just an offer. He continued, “I use my desires in service of control: Control and refinement of my emotions. You, it seems, deny your desires altogether, and this caps your emotions like” he took his napkin and placed it over his open hand, “like a cloth over cello strings.” He wiped his hands with the napkin and leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table.

“Our baser desires are very much like a cello, and our emotions are the strings. When played by someone else, they ring out and resonate through the cello, amplifying intensity and feeling. Many people are happy playing a one note symphony. Some explore one string and play up and down the frets. Some play high strings and some low. Few, a very few attempt to play multiple strings, to attempt chords of emotion. But sometimes they pluck the strings and the sound is so cacophonous, so terrifying in its intensity of jumbled noises and feelings that they don’t just stop playing, they lock the instrument away. But that is where the analogy ends, because emotions aren’t strings and desire is not a cello that can be stowed away in a dusty attic. They are an instrument that demands to be played.”
“Are you suggesting you tune my strings?” she replied. “Or perhaps you seek to ‘play’ me and make me sing?”
“Nothing so juvenile.” he replied. “I am merely suggesting we take the cello out of its case.” Alix felt for the first time a sort of stirring in her. The depression pushed from her chest, trying to get out, to wrest control as it always did, but something else underneath it pushed too. This something else carried a feeling of long ago. A lost feeling that hinted at its shape with pins and needles.

Robert placed his hand back on the table, palm up. Only this time it was much closer. The part of Alix that resurfaced screamed for her to take it. It begged, it cajoled, it kicked as hard as it could. But it was too far away to be heard, and the depression regained control. She sat back. Robert held the hand out for another few seconds, then smiled and retrieved it. “I have kept you long enough.”
He took a chit out of his pocket. A waiter came by and snatched it up before scurrying to the coat check. “I want to thank you very much for an intriguing evening. I’m sorry that I have offended you. I have most certainly done so, but understand that was never my intent.” Alix stood up. Robert gestured for her to lead the way to the door. When they arrived at the coat check, their coats were already waiting, as was Robert’s driver. Robert helped her Alix put on her jacket.
“My driver Mendelsohn will take you home.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“I insist.” He extended his hand to her. She took it. He gave her a firm, honest handshake. “I did enjoy the opportunity to get to know you better. I think perhaps it was a good opportunity for me to learn a little about myself. I think my manners may need some improvements.”
Alix let go of his hand. “You were forward.” She replied, turning to leave. “But honest. Good night.” She walked out the door, leaving Robert alone in the lobby.

Mendelsohn escorted her to the car. He was a short, powerfully built man with a well-manicured beard and soft eyes. He looked to be late 30’s, maybe early 40’s. He carried a few extra pounds, but on him it was somewhat flattering. He opened the car door for Alix. She slid into the back of the Town car. The car slowly pulled out and onto the street.

End Chapter 1

Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/4ag0au/a_tale_of_no_one_chapter_1_mf_bdsm_romantic