Seduced , Abandoned

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Every once in awhile, Angie wondered what would have happened if she’d been gutsier – or sluttier, or more opportunistic. If she’d been just as tough as Roger’s wife – what was her name again? You’d think she’d remember, after all, the woman had signed at least a dozen checks to her. It had only been a year since her affair with Roger had ended, but Angie replayed bits and pieces of it over and over again in her mind. It all began when she’d eavesdropped on a well-dressed, older blonde woman whispering to her husband in a Westwood diner.

“You see that woman over there? She’s not really a woman, is she? More like a child-woman- Isn’t that what they used to call Marilyn Monroe? But I’m sure she doesn’t have the emotional baggage and she’s completely honest. That’s what I would want for you, not some trollop that would cause trouble for both of us later. Why don’t you go over and talk to her?” the woman kissed him. “I have to go now. I’ll see you in a few weeks and I’ll call you as soon as the plane lands.”

Sure enough, the man walked over to her after his wife had left. He sat down next to her, his faint but musky cologne as intoxicating as sex. He said he couldn’t believe that such a beautiful young woman was eating lunch alone. She blushed, and they exchanged small talk for a few minutes. He said his name was Roger, but revealed nothing else about himself.

“Where do you work?” he asked her

“No where steady – I’m an artist.”

“You don’t seem like an artist. You seem too sensible.”

She smiled. “Well, I have to take that as a compliment. So I’m not a stereotype — is that what you mean?”

“Exactly. I’ve always appreciated originality.”

She didn’t see him again for a few weeks, but one afternoon, his wife came into the diner again, by herself.

She looked like an art dealer – she had that same icy, vaguely European countenance, coupled with the assured, Armani-suited stride of a negotiator. Angie calmly lifted up her portfolio from underneath the table and wedged it on the seat next to her, like an inanimate dinnermate.

“Hello. My name is Sadie Christensen. I couldn’t help but notice you sketching there. May I see it? Hope you don’t mind my snooping.”

“Oh, not at all.”

“You know, this is very good. Are you a commercial artist?”

” I do some commercial work, yes, just to pay the rent.” She picked up her portfolio and put it on top of the table. “But my main focus is fine art – painting and sculpture. “I have a portfolio. Would you like to see it?”

“I don’t have time to look at your whole portfolio, dear. I’m on my way to a business meeting – here’s my card. Meet me at my office say at four-o clock today and we’ll talk, all right? I may have a job for you.”,


The offices of Christensen & Christensen Holdings LLC were located in a prominent high-rise in downtown L.A. The receptionist, an attractive but prim Miss Moneypenny clone, brought Angie a Diet Coke – in a glass, with a wedge of lemon, and rang Sadie on the intercom.

“You won’t be working for me. You’ll be working for my husband… he doesn’t know that I have talked to you. Don’t tell him. He wouldn’t believe you anyhow.”

“What is it you want me to do?”

“Seduce him. Hurt him, break his heart.”

“But why would you ask another woman to do that to your husband?” Angie was shocked but intrigued.

“To keep him in check – you see, I get the feeling he wants to stray. He’s going to do it even if I try to stop him. So I might as well have him do it on my terms – even though he won’t know that – only you and I will. Do you want the money or not? I know you need it.”

She remembered him — not too bad looking, nice body, kind of a freckly face for an older guy, Nothing distinctive. She looked at the money and thought of her ill-fitting shoes. Standing in line at the dental clinic with welfare cases to get her teeth cleaned. The super ringing the doorbell for rent while she cowered quietly in the bathroom.

“I’ll do it.”

The next afternoon Angie sat in her customary booth at the diner. Her usual waitress, Diandra, a tall, outspoken Brooklyn transplant, complimented Angie on her new, low-cut blouse. “You got it, you should flaunt it, honey,”

Roger sat at the lunch counter reading the Wall Street Journal. Angie caught his eye when he looked up to flag the waitress for a refill. tuzla escort She channeled all her unmet lusts into that one stare, and a few seconds later, Roger was sitting next to her, buying her a steak dinner and staring down her ivory chiffon blouse. Angie dropped every pretense of being a good girl. She brushed her hand against his side and felt his body relax. That’s when she knew she was in for some easy money.

“You’re so subtle. You know instinctively how to transmit your feelings without being obvious or coy.”

“And what feelings am I telegraphing?”

He leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Look at the way you’re sliding your finger down my shirt. I bet you didn’t realize you were doing that.”

I…oh – I didn’t mean.. you’re right.”

“That’s giving me the same message as if you’d gotten on your knees and unzipped me — only its much more creative.”

“We have to do it on my terms, you know.”

“Do what? What are you talking about?’

“I don’t need art lessons, love. If you want to be with me, we can start tomorrow, as soon as I arrange a meeting place. Otherwise, just say no, and I’ll buy you dessert and say good-bye.”

Angie said yes. The next evening, after she finished teaching a still-life painting class, Roger picked her up in his Jaguar and drove her to his beachouse in Santa Monica – the piece of real estate that was his and his alone.

Angie had never seen such a luxurious beach house – she was incapable of even imagining such decadent splendor. She lie on the velvet bedspread, the obscene softness impeded by her clothes. She unbuttoned her blouse, revealing the slightest peek of black lace underneath.

“Don’t be so hasty…only a slut undresses herself. A lady waits until her suitor undresses her.”

His words gave her goosebumps. No man had ever spoken to her so eloquently, especially during the throes of lust.

“As you wish.” She whispered, decadently aware of the growing bulge underneath his trousers. Yet she dare not feel it under the silky designer material.

He had commanded her to act like a lady. Although restraint contradicted every strain of her being, she obeyed him.

And she wasn’t disappointed.

Roger slid down the straps of her bra one at a time and watched them fall down her slim,tan arms. Different than Sadie’s. The arms of a real woman, not of a voracious part-time triathlete. The soft, slightly fleshy curve of her inner elbows smelled of perfume. A citrusy kind that conjured up in him an image of her running naked down the beach. He smiled at her, not realizing the thought lit his eyes with an evil glare. “Oh, your face is beaming like the devil himself crawled inside you. What are thinking about?” Angie stared down at him, stroking his platinum hair with her French manicured fingers.

Any urge he had to turn her into a lady, any Pygmalian notions,disappeared. Instead, he turned into a heathen.

“This” he set upon her nipples with his teeth, reveling in the hard edges that peaked out of her black lace bra. She arched her body upward as though offering enticing him into taking the entire breast into his mouth. Small as they were, his mouth could only do so much to them. The latent desires inside him were too much. Too bad he did not have split personalities or a half-dozen cocks to unleash his conflicting lusts upon her at once. He knelt on the bed and thrashed off his belt with the speed of a cracking whip. She reached for his zipper.

“Greedy little girl. You’re ready to explode.”

“So you don’t deny it.”

She unzipped his pants.

His cock strained torturously against his boxers. She peeled them off. Common tramp. How many times had she done this before and without even requiring dinner first. His toned but pale legs shivered as this sweet slut fingered his cock. She sucked him without asking first, sucked him like she was born for the task. He grew red and angry inside her mouth.

“Off with your little g-string, my dear.”

“Shouldn’t you do the honors?”

“I was wrong about you. You’re no lady.”

“Oh, don’t look so sad…I don’t want you to be a lady. I get enough of that at home…” he whispered in her ear, breath tinged with bourbon from their after-dinner drinks.

She slipped her black and silver g-string down her thighs. He finished pulled it off and tossed it on the floor.

He slipped on tuzla escort bayan top of her such a gentle little thing he needed to consume her before she clung to him like an errant porn star. Sadly, his need was blighted for a second by a flash of mortality. She was after all ten years younger and full of the sparkle that had abandoned him.

He couldn’t remember when Sadie had fellated him with such enthusiasm. He wondered if she ever had.


Angie paid the rent on time – her landlady, stout Armenian woman, cracked a smile for the first time in months “You sell painting?”

“Yes, yes,” Angie replied. What could she do — tell the truth? Some rich woman paid me to fuck her husband?

“We see your painting in museum someday, no?”

“I should be so talented.” She smiled “Thank you.”

Sadie warned her not to tell anyone what had happened, and Angie obliged. She could imagine what her trust fund, plastic surgery enhanced students would say if they knew. “Who the hell would pay money to fuck you? You’re so Midwestern…” Angie blocked it out of her mind and used the money as a blessing. She bought some new clothes – some lingerie with Roger in mind – remembering that he preferred to see her wear the slutty Playmates of Hollywood stuff instead of Victoria’s Secret. When they met that week, their mutual lust had escalated to the point where speech was superfluous. He opened the beach house door. She tossed her duffel bag on the floor. He pulled her inside and rubbed his body against hers. Even fully clothed, the friction of his crotch against hers was too much to bear. ” Angie undid his belt and watched his gabardine pants slide to the floor. He looked as good dressed as he did naked. Watching him move sleekly in his well-cut designer suits turned her on as much as riding his naked body.

Angie savored the look of expectation on his face as she knelt down and teased his cock with a few predatory licks. Roger savored blow jobs more than fucking, it seemed, and she obliged him letting a bit of cum trickle down her lips before swallowing the rest. When they fucked, he liked to watch her ride him. He reached up to play with her bouncing breasts, flicking her nipples with his bony fingers til she moaned in protest and delight.

After sex, they cuddled. He smoked cigarettes, she drank champagne. They talked about everything – politics, music, sports – for hours. But every once in awhile the dreaded “S” word came up.

“Sometimes I wish I could leave Sadie.”

“Oh, don’t say that. I thought you loved her.”

“I do. But she doesn’t make me feel…the way you do. You’re amazing…so full of life, so funny and spontaneous.”.

“And poor and quirky.”

“But that’s what I like about you – the quirky part, not the poor part.” He kissed her on the cheek.

“You won’t be poor for long -with your artwork. I bet Sadie could help get you a gallery show. She knows a lot of people who own art galleries …isn’t that funny?”

“The irony isn’t lost on me.”

He took note of her short, sharp reply

“I think you’d like her if you met her. You’re so opposite you’d probably be friends.”

“But you’re never going to met her. She’s like a detective. She’d be able to smell me all over you even after a thousand showers. She’s so smart – too smart, too perfect. “

She cut him off abruptly. “Lets not talk about your wife anymore.”

“I’m sorry, honey.” He brushed his finger, still warm from where he had held his cigarette, along her neck. “I didn’t know it bothered you.”

That was it. Angie knew she had fallen for him. They made love three or four times that night, mercy fucks, she figured, but she let him do it. Angie smothered the flat, freckled chest she had grown to love with kisses. Roger sensed her desperation. “Don’t worry, love. I will always be here for you. In this place.” Angie assumed since he had mentioned Sadie so many times he was ready to go back to her. She wondered if Sadie would ask for a refund, since Roger had broken her heart, not the other way around. He drove her home that night as pasty drizzle soaked the streets. Angie blocked out her sorrow so deftly Freud couldn’t even detect it, until she was safely inside her apartment. Then she cried herself to sleep, still wearing the black satin pants with a strand of Roger’s greyish blond hair on it.

Like any spurned lover, escort tuzla Angie spent the next few days, commiserating with herself. Since discussing the affair with anyone, even her best friend, was dangerous, she spent a lot of time writing in her journal and then fed the pages though her paper shredder since she didn’t have the romantic luxury of a fireplace. When the bill collector from Visa called, Angie realized the payments from Sadie would stop.

She didn’t have his number, his work address, and she knew nothing about him except that he was Sadie Christenen’s husband and an exquisite lover. On Tuesday afternoon, as she walked home from art class, she saw the Jaguar parked in the LACC lot. Luckily, she spotted him sitting in the drivers’ seat, smoking another one of those damn Turkish cigarettes.

She knocked on the window.

“Are you insane? Parking a Jaguar in this neighborhood? You’re lucky the gang-bangers didn’t carjack you!”

“Get in.” He unlocked the passenger door. “I missed you.”

“Oh, did you really.”

“I have a surprise for you. We’re going to a gallery opening in Los Feliz. I think you’ll like it. At La Luz”

“Oh, God I heard about that. That’s a benefit – it’s five hundred bucks to get in. Thank you, thank you! You’re a doll!!” She smothered Roger with so many voracious kisses he almost crashed the Jag.

As soon as they walked into the gallery,she saw him. He was around her age, give or take a year, with shaggy brunette hair down to his shoulders. Angie recognized him as a classmate from college, an artist she had worked with on the school paper. She heard that he recently started his own comic book imprint. “Henry- Henry Jaffee”, she called out to him. “I don’t believe it.”

“Angie, – I haven’t seen you since graduation.”

He kissed her innocently on the cheek. “So did you come here alone…?”

“I umm.. I’m with a business associate. He’s trying to help me get a gallery show of my own.”

“Oh, cool you know I know a lot of people, too. Terry Rundle — he runs the Ivers Gallery. He wants me to curate a show for him.”

Angie talked, enraptured by Henry until she remembered she had come to the opening with Roger.

Roger, true to form, had captivated the only other person there close to his own age – one of the gallery’s patrons. The woman was similar to his wife in clothing and taste but not in looks. Angie glanced at him. He motioned for her to walk over. “I’m sorry, Henry. I’ll be right back.”

After a perfunctory hello, Angie and the woman, Dana, talked about artists on the scene that they admired. Roger had little to add to the conversation. He dawdled by the wine and cheese table for a minute, then pretended to look at some sculptures made from wire hangers.

Angie divided her time between Henry and Roger as inconspicuously as possible, but it soon became apparent that Roger was growing impatient and jealous. She asked Roger to take her home. He agreed.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” he asked.

” Roger, I’m way too tired. Thank you for taking me to the show – you’re an angel.” She kissed him quickly on the lips. “I’ll call you.”

His Jaguar had disappeared down Sunset when she realized what she had done.

She had given Sadie what she wanted.

The next day, she and Henry went shopping at an art supply store, went to his loft and pored over his comic book collection. Then they smoked some pot and made love.

Giddy as a junior high school girl with a crush on a rock star, she spent the next day drawing and painting – and counting the hours til Henry would pick her up.

She didn’t realize she had forgotten about Roger until Sadie left a message on her answering machine. “Darling, I don’t know what you did, but it was perfection. Stop by my office today. I have a final check for you – and a bonus.”

Sadie wasn’t in the office when Angie arrived. The receptionist handed her an envelope that contained a check for $3,000 and an invoice that read “This now closes the account between Christensen & Christensen LLC and Angela Duffy for commercial art services.”

Angie and Henry used the money to self-publish a graphic novel. She told him the money came from a small inheritance a great aunt had left her. They had a signing at an independent bookstore in Hollywood. Although the tiny shop was packed, Angie caught a quick glimpse of Roger peering through the front window. He looked at her, then looked away, just as Sadie stepped out of the Jaguar, in fur coat and heels, and accompanied him into the four star French restaurant next door.

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