A Year of Submission
Chapter 1: The First Week

It seems so strange, now, that only a year ago I did not even know her name. But it is true. She was only one of a gray mass of colleagues working in other departments, one to walk past in corridors with at most a slight inclination of one's head.

She was not remarkable to me then, in any way. True, she was beautiful, but so are many other women. A few years older than me. Ten, perhaps? She was neither tall nor short. She wasn't fat, but not skinny either. Her hair was of a common color, and so were her eyes. That she once was unremarkable ... Unconceivable!

She did, as far as I can remember, only set herself apart from others in one way. Her demeanor was that of a prude, proper woman, a librarian, a feminist. Someone who never lost control, never gave anything away, never invited any kind of attention.

But her clothes were certainly not prudish. I had expected someone like her to wear pants, comfortable shoes, and a sweater or anonymous shirt.

Not so. She wore black shoes with high heels. Not too high, not too thin, but in that troublesome border area between where men's eyes were caught and where the shoes were still usable. And her skirts always reached her knees, making a man's eyes move slowly up her lovely legs, and suffer a small sting of disappointment when they reached the hem. Some consolation could be had from letting the eyes in secret linger on her bosom. What a tight sweater was hinting at was invariably framed by a classy jacket.

It was a strange combination to me, but it fitted her personality perfectly, as my waking mind slowly understood. My subconsciousness, however, realized this when I met her at the door that day at the beginning of the new year.

How else can I explain how that simple incident sparked my obsession with her?

I was walking down a corridor at our work place, feeling elated and lighthearted. I had just convinced someone to buy a large amount of what our firm produces, and was almost whistling as I walked.

She was coming towards me, and I noticed her just before I was to open one of those blasted glass-windowed doors they insisted to litter the corridors with in the name of security. She was carrying an arm-load of heavy books, so I opened the door wide, waited, smiled at her, and bowed as she passed through the door. As I said, I was in a good mood.

Maybe it was my flamboyant bow or my grin that made her smile back at me, and utter the words "Thank you! Good boy!" as she hastened along with her arms full of books. Maybe so, but that incident changed my life forever.

"Good boy," she had said. And she had smiled. And I had been struck by a thunderbolt, unable to move, unable to do anything but watch her until she turned around a corner, and only the slowly dying echo of her heels remained. Then I had shaken my head, and continued to my office.

But I could not concentrate on my work. I was a good boy. She had smiled at me. Who was she? Why did she touch me so? What had just happened?

I had been a good boy, I had opened the door for her. What if I had carried her books? Would she had said it again? Would she have patted my head and smiled again? Would she have, would she have?

I should have offered to carry the books for her. I should go back and see if she wanted more books carried. See if she wanted anything done. I was in a fever.

Then my phone rang, and she slipped to the back of my mind until I got home. But then her smile and her words and her looks returned in full strength, churning through my mind in stronger and stronger fantasies, until I fell back, spent and exhausted.