Pop Goes the Weasel

finished.
    “Sarah, please sit down,” he said. He was trying to keep a straight business face. “Personally, I loathe the rain. It’s one of the many reasons I’ve never been stationed in London.”
    He sighed theatrically behind the rigid tent he’d made with his fingers. He wondered if Sarah noticed the length of his fingers and if she ever thought about how large he was elsewhere. He would bet anything that she did. It was how people’s minds worked, though women like Sarah would never admit to it.
    She cleared her throat, then put her hands on her knees. The knuckles of her fingers were white. Christ, he was enjoying her obvious discomfort. She looked ready to jump out of her skin. How about out of her tight little skirt and blouse?
    He began to stretch the fingers on his right hand, playing his part as dominator to the hilt. “Sarah, I think I have some bad news — quite unfortunate, really, but can’t be avoided.”
    She sat nervously forward in her chair. She really was nicely built up top. He was getting hard now. “What is it, Mr. Shafer? What do you mean? You think you have bad news? You do or you don’t?”
    “We have to let you go. I have to let you go. Budget cuts, I’m afraid,” he said. “I know you must find this immensely unfair, and unexpected as well. Particularly when you moved halfway across the world from Australia to take this job, and you’ve been living in Washington for less than six months. Suddenly, the ax falls.”
    He could tell she was actually fighting back tears. Her lips were trembling. Obviously, she never expected this. She had no idea. She was a reasonably smart and controlled woman, but she couldn’t help herself now.
    Excellent. He had succeeded in breaking her down. He wished he had a movie camera this minute to record the look on her face and play it back countless times in private.
    He saw the very instant that she lost it, and treasured it. He watched her eyes moisten, saw the large tears roll over her cheeks, streaking her working-girl makeup.
    He felt the power, and it was as good as he’d hoped it would be. A small insignificant game, certainly, but a delicious one. He loved being able to instill such shock and pain.
    “Poor Sarah. Poor, poor dear,” he murmured.
    Then Shafer did the cruelest, most unforgivable thing. Also the most outrageous and dangerous. He got up from his desk and came around to comfort her. He stood behind her, pressing himself against her shoulders. He knew it was the last thing she wanted, to be touched by him, to feel that he was aroused.
    She stiffened and pulled away from him as if he were on fire. “Bastard,” she said, between clenched teeth. “You are a consummate prick!”
    Sarah left his office, shaking and in tears, running in that stumbling way women often do in heels. Shafer loved it. The sadistic pleasure, not only of hurting someone but of destroying this innocent woman. He memorized the stunning image for all time. He would play it back, over and over.
    Yes, he was a prick. Consummate indeed.

Chapter 18
    ROSIE THE CAT was perched on the windowsill, watching me dress for my date with Christine. I envied the simplicity of her life: Love to eat those mousies, mousies what I love to eat .
    I finally headed downstairs. I was taking the night off from work, and I was more nervous, distracted, and fidgety than I had been in a long time. Nana and the kids knew something was up, but they didn’t know what, and it was driving my three favorite busybodies crazy.
    “Daddy, tell me what’s going on, please? ” Jannie clasped her hands in prayer and begged.
    “I told you no, and no is no. Not even if you get down on your bony little knees,” I said, and smiled. “I have a date tonight. It’s just a date. That’s all you need to know, young lady.”
    “Is it with Christine?” Jannie asked. “At least you can tell me that much.”
    “ That’s for me to know,” I said as I knotted my tie in the mirror beside the stairs. “And you not to find out, my overinquisitive girlfriend.”
    “You’re wearing your fancy blue-striped suit, your fancy dancing shoes, that fancy tie you like. You’re so fancy.”
    “Do I look good?” I turned and asked my personal clothier. “For my date?”
    “You look beautiful, Daddy.” My girl beamed, and I knew I could believe her. Her eyes were shiny little mirrors that always told the truth. “You know you do. You know you’re handsome as sin.”
    “That’s my girl,” I