The Donor

Chapter 7

A Flight to the Caribbean“I really need a drink, Edie.”

“You’ll not have one. And though the cabin has no corners for you to stand and face, I’ll think of some other form of discipline if you ask again.”

Edie looks into my shocked face and smiles, her hand going to my crotch and smoothing over the zipper of my slacks. And I should not be shocked. I have long surmised that her mother-daughter talks with the Boss Lady have included details of how Sales Manager Martina Carruthers encourages high work standards.

“Yes, Mort, I know about corner time. And I know of your demented reaction to feminine authority. Curious you can get so stiff. But for me... when I need... well... nothing functions.... and you know what I want.”

“Yes. A child. I’m a disappointment.”

“But you’re not impotent, Mort. You just need the guidance of a strong woman... and the sick thrill it brings you. And you shall have it.”

Though Edie has been more and more stern over the past few weeks... daily directives concerning dozens of household chores... denying all inebriating elixir... I don’t see her becoming a martinet. She’s not the Boss Lady.

“You now see that as your role?”

“Oh no. I’m going to be a tender and caring mother. I’ll be ovulating next week. And you’re going to give up your seed for me... and I don’t mean by dribbling over my thighs and cunny.”

I look about. Chagrined over the libidinous and embarrassing conversation, elements of which I cannot deny, I note most of the nearby fellow passengers are wearing headphones. Our exchange goes unheard.

“Want to unzip for me, Mort? You usurped the opportunity to expose yourself... to Martina... and her secretary.”

My thoughts broil. Indeed, having been dried out and denied carnal relations since my sabbatical began, I do feel urges. But the crass suggestion shocks anew... as does learning that wife Edie knows of the office antics with specificity. In my inner mind I can hear the youthful mocking voice of secretary Abbie suggesting that I move closer to the wall.

Was she aware I was erect, throbbing p***s pressed well out of my slacks? Edie has been made aware. And her fingers toy and toy, bringing the telltale bulge which precipitated my so termed sabbatical. As always, she is skilled with her hands.

“Where are you taking me, Edie?” deciding to change the subject matter before little Mort demands emancipation. “I know the flight lands in the Netherlands Antilles. But then where?”

“A special place where I think you will find happiness. An hour boat ride to a little island where Martina has suggested your needs will be nurtured and fed. And I think you’ll find purpose. It seems that has been what is lacking in your life.”

Purpose. I think of the drudgery of assembling spreadsheet after spreadsheet. Yes, there must be more purpose in life than pushing about numbers.