Chapter 2

I graduated with a degree in Finance and scored a good job as an analyst at Maitland and Associates, a top-tier downtown investment brokerage. Brock Maitland, the founder/Managing Partner, was already a legend in the industry as well as our city. A football star and graduate of our university, he had, according to the urban legend, eschewed the NFL and started the firm with a loan from his father. He wasn’t a billionaire – yet – but he wouldn’t be clipping coupons anytime soon. His uncanny record for navigating the twists and turns of the stock market was eclipsed only by his charismatic personality, matinee-idol good looks and hard-core body-builder physique. If you stared directly at his zillion perfect teeth without eye protection, you would be flash- blinded. It was said a private elevator in his plush office suite gave him direct passage to both the basement parking garage and his sumptuous Penthouse condo with all the creature comforts, including an infinity pool on the patio deck with an unmatched view of the city.

Brock had yet another legendary reputation; that with the ladies. Because of his wealth and standing in the local business community, plus his photogenic good looks, he was a regular feature in the gossip columns, Internet blogs and television fanzines - as was whatever nubile young plaything occupying his attention at the time. He hosted semi-formal company social events twice a year and Friday night ‘office parties’ every month, at one nightclub or another, as a token of his appreciation for our efforts. I couldn’t remember ever seeing him with the same strumpet hanging on his arm (and every word) two events running. The legend spread, echoed on well-lubricated lips at our company events: Big Cock Brock, the love ‘em and leave ‘em stud who could go all night.

Oh, I wished that I could be Richard Corey...

Whatever I thought of him personally, I couldn’t speak ill of the man. He was an alumnus of our fraternity and our Chapter Advisor. In our house, his undergraduate exploits were told and re-told; the stuff of post-pubescent male fantasy. I hadn’t known it, but he had been keeping an eye on me. After I had distinguished myself as both runner and scholar, he recruited me to work for his company. He cautioned me I would be a probationary employee, like all new hires, but I would be a star ‘probie’.

“I dunno about all that hair,” he had mused, shaking his head, “but the media eats it up and I am all about good publicity. You prove you have a good head under that mane and I suppose we can work with it – but tie it back or something. You hear me, kid?”

Yippieeeeeeeee!

I proved my worth many times over with my own keen interpretation of which companies’ values were on the rise and which were going to tank in short order. Ours was a high-turnover business, with lesser talents disappearing overnight. Bob Martin, one of my fellow analysts, made the observation our boss was dumb as a post himself when it came to market dynamics. His true talent lay in surrounding himself with real savants such as ourselves, jettisoning the ones who didn’t add value to his brand on a regular basis.

Bob was gone the next day. I learned the lesson and kept my mouth shut.

Brock took note of my successes for the firm. The promotions and bonuses followed. He had dropped a couple of hints of late; I was being considered for bigger things and an office in the Executive Suite to go with it.

What a difference disposable income makes! D’Arcy moved in with me and I supported her through the rest of her studies. She attended company social events with me and was adored by everyone. We knew marriage was in our future, but we wanted to wait until she was done with school and we were more settled. To that end, we stayed in our current apartment and saved money towards buying our own home.

Living together exposed me to a couple of D’Arcy’s endearing little quirks. She did occasional Girls’ Nights Out. It had been natural enough with her sorority sisters during her undergraduate days. She now did them with her girlfriends from her business classes. She regarded her nights out as a “mental health exercise”, both to relieve the stress of her studies and to maintain outside interests so she and I wouldn’t get on each other’s nerves. I was already used to the practice. My mother had done them regularly and still did. I was totally supportive now.

Okay, I admit it; when my lover came home from one of these little soirees, the sex was off the charts.

D’Arcy’s mother had been an über-fan of Dynasty, the 80’s television series about wealth, power and conspicuous consumption. As a child, D’Arcy had watched re-runs with her mother – and caught the fever. She now had several seasons worth of DVD’s and had all but worn them out from repeated viewings. The object of their mutual obsession was Joan Collins as the bitchy, ambitious, serially-married Alexis Morrell Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan.

“Not ‘bitchy’,” D’Arcy huffed indignantly at my suggestion. “She is strong, assertive, sure of herself, what she wants and where she is going in life. She loves her men, but on her own terms and won’t tolerate them taking her for granted.”

Such had been the depth of her devotion, my girlfriend’s mother had named her daughter D’Arcy Alexis. That their family name was Morrell made it all the more kismet to her.

What is it with these women? My mother was also a fan of the show, so I was already familiar with it. Yes, there was that whole “Moravian Massacre” thing (jumped the shark there, did we, Mr. Spelling?), but mostly it was amusing. I scored major points with D’Arcy by watching episodes with her and enduring the Byzantine plot twists. I scored again, even bigger, with the perfect Christmas gift: Dynasty: The Complete Series, Collector’s Edition.

Did I say D’Arcy was obsessive about La Collins? She memorized entire passages of the diva’s dialog and echoed them as they played out on screen – and had that clipped, oh-so-precise British accent down cold. With their shared dark brunette hair, icy, mesmerizing gray eyes, accent and affected, haughty attitude, it was almost like watching the re-runs with the actress herself sitting next to me on the sofa, adding behind-the-scenes commentary.

Then a vision popped into my mind; the haughty, aristocratic Alexis, uttering the unlikely words: Take a hike, Buddy.

That’s where I thought I had seen my girlfriend before.

“I believe Alexis is the perfect role model for the young, with-it, twenty-first-century woman,” my lover asserted in that crisp, modulated London lilt. “She has style, class, drive, attitude and a taste for the very best. I would love to be just like her.”

My breath audibly caught in my throat. I guess I had always known Joan Collins, with her Old Hollywood sense of style with makeup, hair and clothes, was a supernaturally attractive woman. After watching her again and again in her signature role as the imperious, demanding Alexis, I had come to realize how... compelling she really was. My girlfriend’s fixation on her totally made sense. The thought of my own D’Arcy as that dominant diva...

“Oh, you like that idea, do you?” the bewitching brunette purred seductively with a coy smile, stroking my now-raging member through my pants. “Perhaps we need to explore this mutual fascination further, Prettyboy.”

That moment marked a turning point in our relationship. We had experimented with domination-submission before. D’Arcy had enjoyed being the ‘top’. I had felt... liberated surrendering control to her. Now we took our game to the next level. In a matter of weeks, morphing into the confident, in-control “Alexis Morrell” became less role-playing and more an act of slipping into a snug, perfectly-fitting kid glove, right down to that clipped, oh-so-proper British accent. You could see the transition in her eyes when she walked through the door after class. Even in casual clothes and minimal makeup, ‘Alexis’ was there in a sanguine, alluring smile, a soft caress of my cheek and those haunting, taunting glacial gray eyes.