The Penitent

Chapter Three - Mister Stein-1

Chapter Three - Mister Stein

Between the time of Wally’s departure on Saturday morning and her phone call to Harry’s Bar on Wednesday afternoon, Kathy thought continually about Stein. Each evening she went to bed early and slept late. She was sure she had disturbing dreams, but except for the feeling they included her uncle, she could not remember them. Her cunt was constantly wet, but she did not touch herself.

The weather turned bright and hot. During the day she could hear Wally’s grader across the street, but she didn’t look out of the windows. In fact, she pulled the drapes shut. Once, he came to the door, but she did not answer.

When Jeff returned from his trip to Philadelphia, he wanted to know all about her Friday night. Although he had accepted the arrangement, he now seemed very jealous and hurt. She could sense in him an angry rage he had so far been able to keep under control. She told him her evening with Wally was okay but nothing special. When he pressed her to be more specific, she said she’d been disappointed. She assured him that he was the only man she loved which was absolutely true. She convinced him that this thing with Wally was some kind of crazy impulse and that it would never happen again. He stopped questioning her. He wanted to make love. However, she invented an excuse, which he also accepted. She half wished he would slap her and then throw her down and pound his c**k into her. But, of course, he wouldn’t do that. He would wait until she was ready, and then he would be grateful.

When Jeff was at home she either napped or shut herself in the bedroom pretending to read. She bathed twice each day and spent hours brushing her hair. She found herself wishing her summer tan would disappear completely. She wanted her skin to be perfectly white. She had an intuitive feeling that Mr. Stein would want to see the thin, blue tracery of her veins. The thought caused her to shudder, but at the same time she became hot and excited.

On Tuesday she decided to remove the polish from her nails. She cleaned and filed them, meticulously rounding the points that had dug into Wally’s scrotum. She experimented with a very light shade of lipstick and a colorless gloss. She washed and pressed her white silk robe and cleaned her white heels. But, then, she put the heels away, thinking that he might find shoes somehow offensive. She would wear the white robe and nothing else.

She never thought of the night with Wally except for his parting promise to talk to Stein. She spent her waking hours recalling the fat man’s smooth, puffy skin, his quick, bright eyes full of cunning and hate, the pendulous lips, the coagulating glob of cold saliva that had seemed to sear her breasts as it slid between them. She found herself touching, almost reverently, the place where he had spit on her. Sometimes she repeated aloud her uncle’s admonition, “Shame, Katherine, shame.”

The days passed quickly, yet by Wednesday it seemed as if the experience with Wally had occurred in some other life. She was polite to Jeff but avoided him. There had been, she knew, another business meeting scheduled for Washington D.C. However Jeff informed her that he didn’t have to attend. She suggested that he go anyway. He balked and seemed suspicious. Once more she persuaded him that the experience with Wally was meaningless and would never happen again. She kissed him warmly and told him she loved him. When she saw that he trusted her, she convinced him that it was in his best interest to attend the meeting and promised that they would go away for a few days as soon as he returned. She’d make arrangements at a romantic country inn. Finally, he agreed.

Late Wednesday afternoon she called Harry’s Bar. Her hand trembled so much she got the wrong number and had to try a second time. She asked for Ezra Stein. Instead, it was Wally who came to the phone. “Stein wants you to write him a letter,” he said.

“Won’t he talk to me? Is he there?”

“He’s here but he won’t come to the phone. He says to write him a letter. Mail it at the local post office tonight. Send it here, to Harry’s Bar. He will get it by Friday and decide after he reads it.”

“Did you tell him about our night? Did you tell him...that...that I would do anything.”

“Yeah, I told him. He just said for you to write a letter then he’d decide.”

“But what should I write?”

“How the hell should I know?” There was a pause. Wally began again, “Anyway, you’re not to phone here again. If he wants to see you, he’ll take a cab out to your place. He don’t like to drive.”

“Do you think he’ll come, Wally?” She couldn’t keep the desperation out of her voice.

“I wouldn’t count on it. He just don’t give a s**t about people, especially women and particularly women like you, well off and all, and living in fancy houses.” Wally hesitated. She knew he had something else to say. When he spoke again his voice was lower, guarded. “Mrs. Ryan, the guy’s no good. I mean he’s scary. I think you’re crazy to...”

She cut him off. “I’ll write the letter, Wally. How should I address it?”

“Okay, okay, it’s your funeral. Send it to Ezra Stein, make that Mister Ezra Stein, care of Harry’s Bar. You know the zip. Stein also says for you to get your husband to go away just in case he decides to come to your place.”

“Thank you, Wally.” She replaced the receiver and sat back in the chair, trembling.

She wrote several drafts of the letter until she produced one that satisfied her. There was no need to describe herself or her night with Wally. Stein had already seen her and she was sure Wally left out no details in recounting their night together. Through Wally, she had promised Stein anything and everything. The fat man had not been impressed. And so it seemed clear that he wasn’t interested in the quantity or even the quality of her s****l appetite.

In her letter she told him about her Catholic childhood, the deaths of her mother and father, the hickory post, the priest-uncle watching but reprimanding her only after he had seen her come. The peeping priest who punished her with no more than “Shame...shame”. She told him about her marriage. She wrote, that hard as it was to believe in these times, she and Jeff were virgin bride and groom. She described the masturbatory fantasies that led to her appearance at Harry’s Bar and culminated in the night with Wally. She wrote of her love for her husband and of his gentle nature and his kindness. But she also mentioned both his and her own growing disinterest in the s****l aspect of their marriage. She described her disgust at Wally’s submissive pleading.

Her letter ended with: “I can only guess why I am so powerfully drawn to you, why I am both excited and repelled by you, desiring you yet very much afraid. I can only guess at why I feel this overwhelming compulsion to subjugate my will to yours. I’m not even sure that’s true. I suppose sometimes it is but at other times I know that such a desire is wrong...obscene...terrifying. I can only guess at the reasons for these feelings, but I think you know what these reasons are. I’m sure, if you are willing to accept my invitation, you will give me what I seem to need. And for my part, I am

Yours,

Katherine”

It seemed a bit overdone but was, she finally decided, the absolute truth.

Throughout the week she had been in a semi-convalescent state: sleeping a great deal, bathing often, and eating very little. By Saturday she had, indeed, lost much of her tan. She did not feel weak or tired, but she moved slowly. When she thought about the possibility that Stein might be here in this house, her heart began to race and the warm flow oozed from her cunt. She could feel the blood rush to it, swelling its lips, gorging her c**t. She felt that she could make herself come simply by brushing her finger over her c******s. Her mouth would suddenly go dry, then just as quickly fill with saliva, making her swallow rapidly.

On Saturday morning Jeff left for the airport without waking her. However, she heard the garage door shut and then the sound of his car backing down the driveway. She did not bathe until late Saturday afternoon. She shaved her p***y again and rubbed it and her body with scented oil. She made up her eyes, startled at how large and softly luminous they seemed. She applied the pale lipstick and a shiny gloss. Stroking the familiar place between her breasts, she watched her n*****s harden beneath the light touch of her trembling fingers. Finally, she put on the white silk robe and at seven o’clock sat down in the living room to wait. She refused to let herself consider the possibility that Stein might not come.

At ten-fifteen she heard a car in the driveway. As she opened the door, the car was backing out and Ezra Stein, in spite of his weight and age, was moving quickly and, she thought, gracefully up the walk.

She stepped back from the door. When his short, bulky frame filled the entrance, she quickly turned to face the wall. She waited. She heard him close and bolt the door, place something on the coffee table, and cross to stand behind her. She turned to face him. His eyes were as she had remembered: hard and bright and cruel. There was a slight hint of a smile on his thick lips. He looked at her and nodded, “Always follow your instincts, Mrs. Ryan. It seems they do not misdirect you.”

“You approved of the letter,” she asked, bowing her head slightly and lowering her eyes.

“Yes, the letter and also how you've prepared yourself. I approve of both.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stein.” She felt herself blushing. She lifted her head but was afraid to look directly at him. “Won’t you sit down,” she said. The burning in her crotch became intense.

He chose Jeff’s large leather chair and put his feet up on the ottoman.

“May I get you something?” Her voice trembled and was so low she wasn’t sure if he understood.

“No, not at the moment.”

She sat on the edge of the couch, her bare feet peeping out from under the hem of her robe. She saw him looking at them, and the color rose to her cheeks again as she quickly pulled her feet back.

“I also find shoes uncomfortable,” he said. He shoved the ottoman out of the way and placed his feet on the carpet. He sat looking at her, waiting. She didn’t move. He glanced down at the floor and tapped impatiently.

“Oh!” she said, jumping up, “forgive me.” She knelt at his feet. She unlaced the black, worn shoes and slipped them off. His socks were thin black nylon. Carefully, she removed one, then the other. His small feet, like his hands, were soft and white. She rubbed them gently. The smooth skin was cool and damp and smelled faintly of sweat and talcum. This was the first time she had touched him. It seemed right, somehow, that it should be this way, kneeling before him performing this humble act of tenderness and contrition.

After a few moments, he stood up. “Does you husband have a dressing gown?” She nodded. “Bring it, please.” She returned immediately with Jeff’s velvet robe. He took it from her and held it up. “It is long, but I like the color, burgundy. Is the bathroom down this hall?”

“Yes, and to your left.”

After several minutes, he was back. The robe dragged on the floor, and the sleeves were turned up in two wide folds. He had pulled the belt tight across his huge stomach. “And now, my little penitent, there is nothing but a thin piece of cloth between my flesh and your adoration of it.” He chuckled. “And nothing but a thinner piece of cloth between your flesh and…well, what shall we say...my use of it? Or would ‘abuse’ be a more precise word?” He stared at her. “Abuse, I think.” He lowered his bulk into the leather chair once more.

She took her place on the couch, the coffee table between them. She thought of his naked body under the robe, his white distended belly, his c**k and balls, his words about adoration and abuse, his absolute authority over her, and his undisguised contempt for her. This fat, ugly, pig of a man had come here to humiliate and, no doubt, hurt her. Yet she was prepared...how might her uncle have phrased it? She was prepared to celebrate his body and, if need be, consecrate her own. ‘Celebrate’ and ’consecrate’...how often had she heard those words. The desire between her legs was almost painful. She had the urge to rip open her gown and rub her throbbing cunt, the wish to masturbate for him. Instead, not daring to look up, she asked, “How did you discover what I need?”