It's not quite dusk. The sun still shines. Its rays are soft, golden and tinged with red and violent where it pierces the gathering clouds. The light turns the water in the swimming pool a pale indigo. The color holds me spellbound.
The wind blows on my bared breasts, sending nipples cresting. Goosebumps spread on my arms and thighs.
I am on my knees. Chains tether both ankles to steel arches set low and deep on the grass. They force my legs apart. There is no hair on my cunt to shelter me from the chill.
Indigo always sets me off.
**
It was probably the blue ribbon crisscrossing the front of my blue gingham smock that did it. Uncle Ben likes telling his friends I looked like a schoolgirl the day he claimed me.
I am a 28-year old grass widow. My ten-year old twin boys haven't seen their father for four years. He disappeared into the desert sands of Abu Dhabi on his fifth year as an engineer for an oil firm. We sometimes hear word of Ed and his woman; they have supposedly relocated to her native Italy.
Whatever. He cut us out of his life, abandoned us to the fates. I accepted that fact eight months ago as our conjugal savings dwindled to alarming levels. At least he'd left us that.
Ben De la Vega isn't really an uncle. He and Dad were classmates at university and had kept in touch through the years. My dad died two years ago and Uncle Ben, a lawyer and accountant and investment banker, administered the estate Dad left for Mama and me. Mama had agreed to cede the narrow townhouse on the far end of our compound. I also got Dad's station wagon and pick-up; Mama got the flashy town cars.
There was enough money for the children's college education but it was in trust. Dad never got over his disappointment of my pregnancy at 18. That ended my charmed life as the only child of upper middle-class parents - the chauffeur, my aging Nanny, the credit-card extension, ballet, art classes and weekly shopping binges with Mama.
Ed was 12 years older than me. I met him through a classmate; they were distant cousins. It was someone's birthday party.
The lights bathed us in flattering hues. The band played Top 40 from the 60s to the 90s. I saw Ed in a huddle with my classmate's brother. I stared until he lifted his head and gave me a smile. He whispered to Jon, who brought him over for introductions.
I behaved like a little slut, drawing my body close and teasing his neck with my fingers as we danced to "You Are So Beautiful." I felt Ed's shoulders tense up. I felt his cock pulse. He asked my age. Then he asked if I knew what I was doing. I've done amateur theater since kindergarten. I'd lost my cheery two months back. I unleashed my best femme fatale act.
From our first fuck, Ed always had the power to make me squirt. His cock's ridges and the thick crown of circumcised skin unerringly rubbed against my g-spot. He was also experienced enough to calm me the first time, when I froze to prevent what I thought was a stream of piss. We always booked rooms with two queen-sized beds. It was that or sleep on soaked sheets.
Ed tried to be responsible. But one night, parked by a lakeside near the resort he'd booked us for the weekend, I couldn't wait. Despite his protests, I went down on him, teased his cock until he couldn't say no, and then rode him until, for the first time, I felt warm seed sliding out of my cunt.
We'd never heard of the morning-after pill. We waited out two months in misery. Then my morning sickness started.
My mom slapped me, screamed and called me a whore and blamed Dad for my immorality.
"Bad seed!" she pounded at Dad's chest.
I knew my parents kept separate bedrooms. Dad was always somewhere else during weekends, except when I had contests and other special events. But still, I didn't know what the hell Mama meant.
I was going to be a lawyer, like Dad. But although I begged, he stood firm. I had a roof over my head, food, the clothes bought over the years. But nothing else.
Ed couldn't set foot in our house. So after a month, he took me to live with his parents and siblings across town, in a house that fronted a noisy local market.
I hated the bustle and the flies attracted by offal and the discards of the daily catch. I also hated not being able to scream anymore when Ed took me. Only a plywood wall separated our bedroom from that of his parents.
All these was before our legislators required parental permission for those marrying before the age of 21. I don't think Ed's family ever forgave my parents' snub. They liked to mock me, exaggerating my mannerisms and telling neighbors I was a bad, good-for-nothing in-law.
With the twins, Ed's income couldn't maintain us and his parents and siblings. So he became one of the ten million Filipino overseas workers. Every homecoming was an orgy of fucking. But our arguments also increased - I hated having to ask his parents for my share of the household budget. I was the wife, the mother of his kids and I had to beg or fight for every cent.
When Ed abandoned us, his parents practically shoved me out of the door. I'm told their house has been renovated, so they must still be getting money from Ed.
I swallowed my pride and visited Dad in his office. The boys melted his heart. He brought us home. But we never really had any real conversation until his heart attack. Then it was too late.
Mama also doted on the kids. She still took me shopping. In return I supervised the household because she always spent nights playing mahjong with her cronies, or ballroom dancing, and never woke till noon.
Six months after Dad died, Mama brought her dancing instructor home.
It was a scandal. He was 30 years younger than her. She asked me to move out. I moved to my smaller house, losing the monthly income from leasing it out.
I had to get a job but had no skills, except for my good grammar and fast typing speed. That was when Dad's sister called Uncle Ben.
***
I was hired as his personal assistant. Not executive assistant. Personal assistant. Gofer.
He occupied a four-room suite in a historic hotel the overlooked the bay on one side and a golf course on another.
I worked in a small alcove adjacent to his office suite's kitchen. I'd serve him coffee or water and call room service whenever work swamped him. That was all I did in the first month. The rest of the time I stared out the window, daydreaming of working or playing on some cruise liner.
Then Uncle Ben's secretary suffered a miscarriage. He threw out two temps in one week. One day he called me in, told me to sit down and take dictation. The following day I became his personal secretary because my predecessor, her biological clock ticking down, opted to take early retirement.
I was a jeans and polo girl. Three days into my new post, Uncle Ben - I called him "Sir" in public - brought me to his bank. I got a credit card with a monthly limit exactly the same amount as my salary. He told me to get clothes befitting a junior executive. I wouldn't have to worry about payment.
Then he brought me to this expensive department store and chose clothes for cocktails and dinner events.
Uncle Ben was always formal, almost stern towards me, just like a guardian relating to his ward. He spoke in clipped sentences. Though he had perfect manners, he could reduce us staff to jelly with a stare.
In the store he sat with crossed knees, running his gaze up and down whenever I stepped out of the dressing room, nodding or shaking his head.
Most of the clothes he approved were of jersey or silk, in jewel colors, with halter sleeves and necklines so deep they meant I'd have to go braless. The clothes either had draped skirts or asymmetrical slits that reached my thighs. He also bought me six pairs of strappy sandals.
I was never invited to local events. All my new fine togs were worn in other Asian countries. Women looked on with envy and men leered as Uncle Ben ushered me into ballrooms and mansions, his hand on my bare back. Uncle Ben never seemed to notice slight shudder whenever his flesh pressed on mine. He always treated me with an almost painful formality.
I ignored the men. I couldn't blame the women. Uncle Ben was tall for a Filipino, around 5'10". He graduated second in his class at the state military academy. He joined the Marines and was a very young major when he retired to take up law and business. He still had the ramrod posture and an ass I loved to secretly ogle. His dark hair sported a widow's peak and a cleft drew attention to a square jaw.
Despite the lack of a college education I was a quick study. I devoured the papers, from the mainstream broadsheets to the more obscure trade publications. After one exceptionally successful night, when he listened quietly as a Hong Kong partner quizzed me about our country's investment risks, Uncle Ben kissed me on the forehead at the door of my room.
His simple murmur of "good job" sent me to the clouds.
***
I had a glamorous job, but my kids' private school education was taking a big chunk of my salary.
Uncle Ben always asked about their activities, but I don't think he really realized what a stretch it was for me. Maybe I should have moved the boys to a public school, but didn't want to deprive my sons of the good, basic education I had enjoyed.
One afternoon, Uncle Ben went to check on me after his buzzer call went unanswered.
I was crying, begging Mama for a loan to underwrite the twins' summer camp for exceptional students.
I felt a hand on a shoulder. Uncle Ben shook his head and motioned for me to cut the call. In his office he signed a check for an amount double what the kids would need and waved away my protest.
A week after the kids left, he asked me to do overtime work on a Friday night.
Four days a week, we wore business attire. On Friday, we came in casual dress. Even shorts were allowed since Uncle Ben never entertained visitors on Fridays. It was our day for wrapping up internal affairs.
That day, I was in a white stretch mini that molded my thighs and ass. My top was a painter's smock of blue gingham. An indigo ribbon threaded through the front opening.
I never wore stockings and my toes glowed a soft pink through the straps of low-heeled sandals. My long brown hair fell straight to mid-back. I'm 5"2 and would be a size 2 if not from my C-cup breasts.
Uncle Ben kept me busy with dictation until around 7 p.m. Then he rose and motioned me to the sofa covered in silk stripes of blue and pale gold. I sat in the middle. He asked what drink I wanted.
A frozen margarita, I replied. He called room service and ordered some chilled veggie sticks and olives and brandy for himself.
The margarita arrived in a huge goblet. I don't have much of a head for alcohol and had last eaten during lunch. Halfway through my drink, I was buzzed.
I smiled as Uncle Ben turned on his CD player. I'd chosen all his music so it was basically jazz and soft blues and definitely romantic.
The conversation was anything but that. He started asking questions about Mama.
At first, I tried to fend him off. Mama drove me crazy but there such a thing as loyalty.
Uncle Ben was blunt. He said mutual friends claimed Mama's boy toy was running through her money. He'd seen them around town, too. She was a free agent and within her rights. But, he warned, she would probably leave me nothing or worse, have to depend on me for her future needs.
