Miss Taylor: Part I

Chapter 1

          The lacey trim of her dress dragged lazily against the hardwood floor. She paused at the gold-studded hallway mirror and very carefully caressed deep red lipstick against her moist lips, completing a perfect architecture women only dream of. Her long deep blue nails raked slowly through her dark brown hair, leaving a dainty trellis of curls just above her breast. She watched her reflection closely as she turned to leave, assuring that her profile portrait was just as exquisite.

Slowly, with very calculated steps, she made her way to the sitting room and sat perched on the suede sofa, each baluster of her body tall and straight with just enough curve to be feminine, but every muscle and pore taut. She gazed out the window where the gardener was working tirelessly on the front lawn and the chauffeur was waiting endlessly at-ready by the car, prepared to act at any moment. A small but pungent smile crept across her face as she gazed authoritatively at her hired help. Each one available at all times to attend to her needs at a moment’s notice. She raised her hand to caress the window ever so softly, placing the tips of her fingers over the small images of her servants and tip-tapping them affectionately.

She very carefully rose, sauntered towards the door, and made her way into the deep and heavenly sunlight. The shiny embroidery of the top layer of her dress sparkled and danced under the firey rays while the countenance of her face bode dark and dramatic like the deep blue backdrop of her skirt. Her servants greeted her cheerfully and seemed very pleased to receive nothing but an ominous nod in return. She continued walking with the strength and certainty reserved only for those dominating nations until she reached her chauffeur by the Bentley. Leaning serendipitously against the car, she stared aggressively at him.

“Would you like me to drive you somewhere, Miss Taylor?” he asked.

He received no response, but stood increasingly uncomfortably as her eyes silently scaled every detail of his person. She stared deeply into his skin – as if dissecting it with her eyes – from the very top of his head, slowly and indiscreetly down his frame to the tips of his toes…and back up again, reaching the very ends of the hairs tip-tooeing in the wind atop his person many moments later.

She shook her head, bringing her right hand to her face, the pointer finger resting lazily on her chin.

“What can I do for you?” he asked hastily and with chagrin, regretting his choice of words immediately.

But it was too late. A sly smile appeared on her lips and she continued to stare in delight for several moments. Then slowly, as if watching his home transform into a shack, he saw her visage descend into a pit of demoralization.

“You’re very nice,” she all but whispered. And she turned slowly back towards the house, walking slowly and almost undetectably less composed than before.

From the window. Across the yard. In the rearview mirror. From that moment on, she took every opportunity to watch The Chauffeur incessantly. Her tantalizing eyes watched his every move. His dark skin, soft hair, and rigid muscles were her new obsession; the joist of her daily pleasure. Her trips to the salon, the spa, and the studio were all chauffeured by him. He received no breaks and very little sleep. She insisted he accompany her inside the room for her daily afternoon massage. Upon finishing, her routine was always the same: stand up unabashedly bare, slip slowly into her robe, and offer a moment of her commanding gaze to the man whose life she had chosen to dominate.

Sunday afternoon they made the long drive back from church. She was never a fan of religion, but enjoyed breathing in the concerned and insecure stares of those who feared for her soul. There was a demented power in knowing that, deep down, what they really feared was her, not her eternal destiny. The Chauffeur was made to stay by her side every moment of the sermon except for a brief break while she pampered herself in the ladies room. They exited the building with commanding presence and she eased into the comfort of the backseat, exhausted from the hard benches and endless babblings of the pastor. One of her hairs made a perfect curly-cue across her soft pale cheek, accenting her strong cheekbones and perfect skin. Coupled with the pouty look on her face, the scene was a bit too enjoyable for The Chauffeur; he caught himself gazing just a moment too long and nearly veered into a nearby vehicle. Never missing an opportunity to enjoy her admirers, the debacle filled her with pleasure causing her to shudder.

Her pleasure was short-lived, however, as the car sputtered and rolled to a stop on the side of a country road miles from town.

 

Click here to straight to Part II

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5 thoughts on “Miss Taylor: Part I

  1. Pingback: Miss Taylor: Part II | Writers of the Rain

  2. Pingback: Miss Taylor: Part III | Writers of the Rain

  3. Pingback: Miss Taylor: Part IV | Writers of the Rain

  4. Pingback: Miss Taylor: Part V | Writers of the Rain

  5. Pingback: Miss Taylor: Part VI | Writers of the Rain

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