Scandal For Sale

Scandal For Sale by Lizbeth Dusseau ISBN 10: 097411345X A Pink Flamingo Publications Ebook Publication All rights reserved Copyright ©2005 Lizbeth Dusseau No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without prior written permission from the publisher. For information contact: Pink Flamingo Publications www.pinkflamingo.com P.O. Box 632 Richland, MI 49083 USA Cover Art copyright © 2001 Tony Ryan www.beauty-reality.com Email Comments: lizbeth@pinkflamingo.com Prologue Outside, a brisk October blue framed the sky, while a few bursts of white colored clouds marched rapidly away, driven by the wind. She was heartened by such rain-washed air; her cheeks pink, her tawny, hazel eyes seeking but unswayed, and her mouth poised. She was in her mid 20’s, sensuous and unsophisticated, although the depth of her eyes suggested a private wisdom tucked inside her youth. Staring upwards, gazing along the ivy-covered brick façade, she took a deep breath of courage and started her trek to the fourth floor, moving through the aged door, propelled upward by the hulking lift. Inside, the smell of ink and sweat and old age crept into her whispery bones. Desks strewn with paper, clicking keyboards, the ping of ancient typewriters, whirring copy machines, florid men jawing on spent cigarettes, ash floating on drafts from open windows—her head turned in each direction, mystified and befuddled. One deep breath of smoke-laden air, another and she sighed deeply—remembering Arthur. Hating the memory, her courage renewed. Hair the color of faded brick, her smooth pageboy swung freely about her shoulders. She stepped forward, inside the gated outer office of the editor-in-chief. “Elliot Rawlings, please,” she asked, feeling her bravery bloom against the imperious odds she faced. She had a body full of passion, liquid, willowy, but not slight. The more voluptuous aspects of her form were hidden respectfully under a navy suit—cut specifically for a modest business environment. “What was that?” the matronly secretary inquired, with her head thoughtfully c****d and a pleasant smile on her warm face. She would be the guts behind this small publishing house, the redheaded newcomer concluded. “I’m sorry,” she spoke up, thinking she was shouting. “I’d like to see Elliot Rawlings.” A flip-looking copy editor snickered as he passed by and heard her plainly stated demand. “I’m afraid that Mr. Rawlings has appointments all morning,” the secretary informed her. “Could I give him a message?” “I need to see him personally.” She was determined to be firm, clutching the folder under her arm with steely resolve. “That would not be possible, Miss.” “Then, I’ll schedule an appointment,” she decided. “Perhaps you could tell me the nature of your business.” The secretary was much too kind, condescendingly so. Altanta Cole. The young woman noted the nameplate at the front of the woman’s orderly desk. “I’d rather speak with Mr. Rawlings personally.” “Do you have a manuscript to submit?” Atlanta Cole turned her attention to the folder, which looked welded under the redhead’s arm. “I do.” “I’m afraid that Mr. Rawlings and Dorchester Press do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.” Her eyes dripped with pity. “Maybe not, but he’ll accept this one,” the young woman came back strong. “Tell him I called and will call on him again.” “Perhaps you can leave your manuscript with me,” Atlanta Cole held out her hand, “along with your name and number.” “No, I can’t,” the girl rushed on much too brusquely, sighing painfully. Tiny stress lines appeared around her eyes; her tender jaw quavered. “I need to speak with Mr. Rawlings personally,” she stated again, firmly so that half the room took note. “This is a manuscript he’ll want to see. I’ll try again another day.” She knew this would be rough, and was undaunted by the rejection. Clutching her beloved folder more tightly still, a feigned smile disappeared from her lips as she turned and left the office. Atlanta Cole watched her leave, watched the womanly sway of the redhead’s finely shaped ass as it vanished out the door. The smell of her perfume was memorable, uncontaminated by the clutter and bustle of the room and all the old manners inside. Excerpts from the diary of S. R. Lourdes January 5 th I am just eighteen. A college freshman in my second semester. My creative writing teacher insists that we journal our thoughts. I’ve always been afraid to do so; strange ideas pop out at me when I write freely. I think for me, what’s in my head should remain the stuff of fiction. But perhaps this will be a useful tool to generate story ideas. Being alone, a freshman in a world of graduated confidence, I’m easily tangled up inside my head, where this inner life is just as frantic and scary as the tangible world has become. Miss Dunkirk suggested that we write our memoirs as fiction—that way we can practice our craft—and not get sloppy with the writing, she says. I’ll try this, though I’m not sure I understand completely what she wants. Even though she’s not going to read this diary, it still seems a little creepy opening up my thoughts for this much inspection. January 10 th I am no more than an average student, lost inside this university. Average body, average height, average looks and a less than outgoing personality, which means I spend a lot of time alone. I’ve watched my roommate weekend after weekend leave me for her myriad of men, all fawning over her flouncy blonde hair and anorexic body dressed in skimpy clothes. She has the look men have been taught to covet. No t**s, skinny arms, a wide mouth, great hair and a daring, funny personality. Of course I’m jealous. But facts are facts. I don’t want her drooling boyfriends. The cute ones with their trimmed goatees and preppy clothes. The smart-ass jocks with their self-absorbed bravado. Even the studiously handsome eggheads who will be next year’s crop of doctors, lawyers and corporate executives. Something rumbles much deeper inside my core that supercedes the need to bed, nest and breed with simple-minded men. Not that life wouldn’t be much easier if I did accept the easy terms of routine growing up and living. I just can’t. February 1 st I’m taking a course in sociological ethics from Judge Perdue. He’s been on the Federal Bench for several years and is on loan to the University this semester. Those are his words, ‘on loan’. He is the most fascinating man I’ve met this year, even though he’s over forty and a rather generous specimen of masculinity. He burgeons in his judicial robes to great breadth, which only enhances the picture of authority he presents to the world—and especially our classroom of fifty students. I find him stern but kind. His air of command makes him sexy in my eyes, makes my cunt warm when I attend his class. I know I’m being childish and crazy to think this way. It’s just a foolish crush, the kind I should have left for more mature love in Junior High School. But these are my fantasies. I won’t take them further. Judge Perdue asked us to write about some societal given that we would change—and what that change would mean. I chose to write about human slavery—suggesting that there is a place for slaves of choice, humans who would desire to live as owned property. I knew my premise was shocking, if not flimsy in its execution, but knew the Judge might single me out in class if I constructed a decent case. There’s something appealing about making a gentle wave on the calm waters of my uneventful life. “Miss Lourdes,” he called me forward after class. This was the first time I was near enough to touch him, and the two foot span between our physical bodies was enough to tease mine to an embarrassing arousal I hoped he wouldn’t notice. “Yes, sir.” I was speaking so formally. He held my paper in his fist, gripping it tightly enough to wrinkle the pages. “Inflammatory piece you’ve written here,” he said. Did he like it? “Should I say, thank you?” I asked, while nervously pressing my sweaty palm against my blue jeans. “It’s well done, perhaps beyond the edge of what I had in mind, but it bears consideration.” “How is that?” I was puzzled. “I wondered if you were aware that there are people who practice modern day slavery by choice?” My heart thumped loudly, heavily, seeming to fall right into my crotch, beating bass-drum boisterously to rouse every s****l, hidden aspiration my oddly tuned body hungered for. “I wondered if you were aware that there are people who practice modern day slavery by choice?” “No, I just made this up.” I was defending myself. “Ah, I see.” He raised his head and nodded. “Then this was just a stray idea you manufactured to complete this assignment.” I hesitated, giving myself away by waiting to respond. “Yes, of course,” I managed to spit out. “There are people who practice modern day slavery by choice.” I had no idea. It was just an offbeat, innocent proposal, was it not? He backed his interest off, smiled, and handed me the paper. “It’s decent work, but needs some revision. Needs to be a little more thought out. I’ve made some notes.” “Thank you.” I snatched the paper much too quickly and fled the room—fled because my head was spinning, and my heart anxiously ran far ahead of my body. Nerves tingled; my imagination felt as though it had struck pay dirt. I couldn’t shove, force, defend myself against the onslaught of images that overpowered every other, more sane thought I could entertain. This is a cruel truth. Why would he tell me these things? What was his purpose? I can’t live with these thoughts! I won’t write them down! Please, heaven help me, I think I’m losing my grip on reality! February 7 th I haven’t written in days—I couldn’t. The minute I picked up my pen and this book, I would begin to spill out a shitload of useless garbage. But I feel the compulsion driving me. My hand slips between my thighs when I’m studying and starts to play. I jerk it away. No! I keep shouting. Hopefully, writing these things down will get them out of my head. February 9 th It hasn’t worked—my willful self-restraint. I’m giving in. I have to know more. February 14 th I went to see the Judge in his University office. They gave him the one emptied by Professor Barrows who he replaced—a university patriarch who collapsed in the quad, dying of a heart attack in November. I’d seen him myself, slump to the cold concrete while we tucked our heads to the winter wind and swept right by him. It had hardly been a suitable time before they brushed the dead man’s things into cardboard boxes and polished the space for another resident. When I knocked, the door rattled as my knees knocked with nervousness. Judge Perdue greeted me kindly, humanely. He remembered my name—Miss Lourdes. What a fool I made of myself. I stumbled over my words until I was about to give up, but he smiled again, being patient, as though he understood what I was trying to say, and would stay all day until I finally got to the point and blurted out my request. “You say you know of people who practice modern s****l slavery?” He looked only mildly surprised and answered, “I do.” “You know ‘of’ them, or you ‘know’ them?” He was behind his desk, standing—had been looking out of the window—and was now staring at me. “Why do you ask, Miss Lourdes?” “I-I,” I stammered, feeling painfully inept and stupid. “Do you have a personal interest in the practice?” I hesitated more, thinking he might offer me another question, but instead he waited for my reply. “I think so?” “An undeveloped one,” he assumed. “An uninformed one,” I clarified. “I see.” He still didn’t answer my initial question, and I think I was a fool to have revealed even this tiny intimacy with a virtual stranger. “It’s just a passing interest, really,” I told him. Moving around the protective barrier of the desk, his aura preceded him, drawing me like a spaceship tractor beam. I moved a step closer, even though I wanted to step back. “I wouldn’t worry about your interest, Miss Lourdes. It seems to be a natural one.” “Really?” I’m sure he had no idea how provocative this living fantasy has been inside my psyche. “I’m not a psychologist, but I gather we all have our fleeting, quirky thoughts. Keeps life interesting.” He was trying to make light of my serious mood, but he was moving away from what I needed to know. I should have made my apologies and left, but the force behind my compulsion wouldn’t let me. I stood with him, speechless; words, a confession crowding inside my mouth, demanding some articulate expression. “I don’t think this is fleeting, Sir,” I practically spit out. “Oh?” He set his hip back on the edge of the desk, casually. “Do you know ‘of’ these people who practice slavery, or do you ‘know’ them?” I repeated my initial question. He answered quietly, judiciously, “I know them.” “And how would I meet them—if I wanted to make a study of their habits?” “You would need to be invited into their midst. The practices you’re talking about are private, secrecy is mandatory. I might be foolish for even admitting as much as I know, but I sense that you’re sincere.” I shook my head. “I don’t know what I am, Sir, and now I think I’d better go.” I left him no rebuttal. I sped down the stairs, and almost tripped on a backpack left on the wax-polished staircase. That was two days ago. Only now have I the courage to write about the incident, but I haven’t had the courage to return to class. February 15 th There was a note in my post box this afternoon. Miss Lourdes. Your grade will suffer if you don’t come to class. Let’s be there, on time, tomorrow. Judge Perdue. I get the shivers just feeling Him on his stationary—a flawlessly creamy paper, not just something ripped off a scratchpad. His reminder is like a command. My tummy is all-aflutter. February 22 nd Since last writing, I’ve spent three class sessions in Judicial Ethics trying to forget my brief encounter with Judge Perdue. That is almost impossible. He stalks the room, levels his eyes on students as if he’s passing sentence, then backs off chuckling. He enjoys adding a little wrath to our post-adolescent angst. He may have forgotten the subversive mission my loins drive me toward, but I have not. The brew of desire has submerged itself to a gnawing hunger slightly less than ravenous, which I think, in time, will go away altogether as long as I don’t fuel it with more conversations like the last one with Judge Perdue. February 26 th There was a small booklet in my post box this afternoon. From the Judge again, “I think you might be interested in this,” he’d scrawled on the cover of the pamphlet. I opened it and read the table of contents of a Slave Training manual—then read the entire thing cover to cover between Biology and Spanish. My hunger is almost out of control.