Chapter 1: Haughty

Haughty.

That’s the word that came to mind when he met her.

Della, a relative or a family friend of his ex-wife, presumably. The brief encounter - the only one - had been at a large gathering at his in-laws’ a couple of years ago.

“Her real name is Emilia,” Susan had told him afterwards, “Emilia della Frusta.” She had giggled, he remembered, wondering now if her mirth had come from something other than the wine.

Why had that meeting stuck with him? She was of barely average height, but nevertheless, she gave every impression of looking down on him.

When Susan introduced him, she repeated his name, Frank, as if pronouncing it left an unpleasant taste in her mouth. He remembered feeling embarrassed, as if he had failed her in some way.

It had been confusing then, and now he was even more unsettled. It’s not as if she were a great beauty or simmeringly sexy in some way. No, Della was as non-descript as they come, a brunette with literally nothing particularly attractive about her. But the memory was indelible.

He was eating lunch in his office when she phoned him. Why he answered an unknown caller remains a mystery. He was probably just bored.

“Hello, Frank. This is Della Frusta. We met at the Sommerfelds’.”

“Oh!” Frank responded, surprised. “Yes, I remember you.” The sound of her voice, heard only that one time, sparked instant recall; her condescending expression came immediately to his mind’s eye.

The slight pause that followed was uncomfortable for him, bringing back that sense of inadequacy.

“What can I do for you?” he offered, and then regretted. Why this need to mollify her?

There was a definite tone of bemusement in her reply. “Hm. That remains to be seen.”

Frank found his throat very dry and had to take a sip of his Perrier.

“I thought, since I’m alone here in Manhattan, you could take me to dinner,” she concluded.

It didn’t sound at all like a question or a suggestion. And Frank, unusual for him, fund himself veering from fluster to certitude.

“Oh, yes, I’d love to!” he gushed eagerly. And then he wondered where that had come from. Yet he couldn’t deny that he was excited by the prospect.

“Good. Pick me up at the Plaza at seven.”

She hung up.

Over steaks in a “reasonably priced” SoHo chophouse, Della informed him briefly that she was in town to take charge of a business she had acquired. Then she started asking questions.

“What’s your annual salary?” she began, firing question after question until she was satisfied, and had a thorough understanding of his finances, lifestyle, hobbies, and interests.

It never occurred to him that her questions might be a bit inappropriate, a tad too personal. Rather, he found it strangely stimulating to lay himself bare in this way. It felt like an intimacy that had been missing since his divorce. More intimate in some ways. And the vulnerability he felt at her total lack of reciprocity gave him a kind of thrill.

He wanted to ask her about her life too, but her demeanor was so intimidating! He studied her face as he psychologically stripped himself naked for her. Her large, intelligent eyes were clearly studying him, appraised him. They were her greatest asset, he decided, actually quite beautiful in their cold, steely gaze.

Her mouth, too, attracted his attention. It was just a little too small, the lips too thin to be pretty, but it was so mobile and expressive when she spoke and often twisted wryly into a sarcastic, mocking sort of smile when he gave his answers.

She looked a little older than he remembered; late thirties at least, he surmised. That would make her a good ten years older than he was. He didn’t often do this with women, even the pretty ones, but as he observed her, he tried to imagine her body beneath her clothes. How would she look naked?

The sweater and trousers revealed little. She had small breasts, clearly; a slight swelling of her sweatered chest was enough, with some tapering at the waist, to imply her womanliness. But she was far from curvy. Not much in the ass department, either, he remembered from their walk to the table.

At least she’s not fat, he mused. She might even be athletic...

His reverie was interrupted. Della was speaking to the waiter.

“No, just one, for me. He’s only allowed one glass of wine.”

The waiter smirked and glanced at Frank. His smile softened as he took in Frank’s relative youth and good looks. Frank was blushing, affronted by Della’s presumption.

Frank spoke up. “Actually I would like...”

He was interrupted by a stinging slap on the cheek! He gasped and the waiter recoiled, clearly embarrassed. He glanced at Frank furtively, sympathetically, as he slinked away. Frank wondered if he was gay.

Della leaned in close, menacing, and hissed in his face, “Don’t you ever contradict me again!”

Frank could see spittle at the corner of her snarling mouth. He looked into her glaring eyes. He was afraid of her. A real physical sense of fear gripped his guts.

“No ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am,” he managed to squeak.

“That’s a good boy,” she said quietly, her features softening. She stroked his burning cheek gently. “Just so we understand each other.”

He watched her face, so close up, as her wry smile returned. Was that triumph in her cold grey eyes? He could smell the cabernet on her breath.

His cock was rock-hard.

Della gave the cabbie the address of Frank’s upper west side condo.

Frank was politely holding the door for her as she slid onto the bench seat. He was mildly shocked (an almost permanent state all evening) but not surprised. His cock, having never fully deflated, nor his fear fully abated, pulsed and thickened. Was she going to stay the night? The thought both scared and aroused him.

Instead of allowing him to close the door and walk around to the opposite door, Della scooched over to the center and patted the seat beside her.

“Sit here,” she said. Her smile looked innocent, her tone wasn’t uninviting.

He complied meekly, although warily, already accustomed to this internal turmoil, the battle between fear and desire, that had kept him off balance from the beginning.

But she had only slid halfway across the seat so that, to fit himself inside and get the door closed, he found himself practically squished up against her. He was dizzyingly aware of the warmth of her thigh against his. He glanced at her face. She smiled again. It didn’t quite reassure him.