How to be a Good Veronica. Michael K Freundt
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the trustees of your father’s estate are all very clear about your father’s wishes: he spelt it out to the letter.”
“But, the money’s mine, I should be able to do what I like with it.”
“Of course, I agree with you, but we are all tired by the conditions of your father’s will; especially you.”
“I knew there’d be something like this,” she says grimly as she fishes around in her bag for a tissue. “He was always the kind of man who needed everything to be done his way especially when it inconvenienced others.”
“Then you won’t be so very surprised by the trustees laying down certain conditions.”
“My husband will be so cross about this. He’s been counting on this money. I don’t know what I’m going to tell him. You did say you would see what you could do.” She blows her nose and searches for another tissue in her over-stuffed bag. The doctor reaches for his box of tissues and hands them to her. She immediately grabs his arm which propels her half out of her seat. “Oh, please,” she urges, “you must help me. My husband will go crazy if I come back empty handed.” She is almost sitting on his desk now in her attempt to urge him to help her.
He stands up and her knees press into his crotch, “Well, I’m not sure exactly what more I can do.”
She pulls him towards her forcing her left knee between his legs. She keeps hold of his arm and with her other hand swiftly unbuttons her jacket. As she talks her hands work their way under his shirt pulling it out from his trousers. “You have to talk to them. Make them see that I need, really need, this money. You don’t know what my husband is capable of. His high public profile has had a devastating effect on his personality especially towards me and the girls. You’ve seen him on television; does he look to you like a man who’s in control? That fixed smile, a little open-mouthed - I don’t know who told him to do that. Anyway, it must be obvious to everybody that he’s in way over his head; and how to do think he relieves himself of such tension? Mm? Do you want me to show you the bruises? Here, look!” She pulls up her skirt to show him her inner thigh. “They’re almost gone now, but he knows where to leave his mark, you can still see the outline of something blue and nasty. Here! No, look closer!” She puts her hand on the back of his head and pushes it down to her exposed thigh. “They’re faint, but you can still see where they were. Oh, please you must make them see,” she pleads.
“Oh, Mrs. Abbott, your husband has lost sight of your charms, I think.”
“Do you really think so, Charles?” she says as she runs her hand down the warm skin of his back and under his belt to the elastic band of his briefs. “You must let me convince you,” she continues as she shuffles her buttocks further onto his desk, pulling him closer to her. “Are you sure there isn’t anything I could say to make you exert, really exert, your influence over the trustees?” She rearranges herself and grabs his belt buckle. With her right hand she swiftly slips the buckle and loosens his trousers as her left hand slips around from his arse freeing his now baggy trousers as they slip to the floor and she reaches her hand under the elastic to the warm and prickly place. Her mouth finds his and the kiss is deep and wet. She grabs his erection, small with a kink to the left; it is hot in her hand.
“Oh, Mrs. Abbott, I’m sure there’s something we can work out,” he says breathlessly as he supports himself with one hand and slips the other inside her jacket. He leans into her and takes his weight on the desk to release his other hand as he frees her left breast from its bra-cup. He keeps talking as he roughly fondles her breast, his eyes darting, concentrating on every inch of her bare skin and his hips begin a little thrusting dance as she slowly masturbates him inside his briefs. “It maybe, that I, could have a private word, to the men, on the board, who I know are very keen, to relieve you, of any, unnecessary grief, and of course, there’s Mr. ...Ah!” he gasps as Veronica squeezes his balls. This has two effects: it signals his ‘letting go’ and it re-affirms that she is in control - funny that. He stands there with his eyes closed with his hand slowly feeling its way to her nipple. She is particularly sensitive there today and tries hard, and successfully, to concentrate on what she is doing and not on what he is doing: this is business. She begins to squeeze and rub her hand up and down the crooked shaft of his penis. On each downward stroke her little finger inches its way under his balls and finally reaches the rough scar-like line of his perineum. She hears an intake of breath and she knows not to go too far. The head of his penis is getting sticky so she knows it’s time. She uses her other hand to lower his head to her cleavage. He kisses her skin. Her timing today is a little off and she wonders if she has hidden the rosebud too well. The position they are in is awkward and she moves her body slightly to give him better access; he sees the little rosebud on her pale flesh. He gasps. His face freezes and his body tenses as he stares at the little flower – this head moves from side to side taking it in from all angles, like an artist - and the memories come flooding back, and overwhelm him. “Oh Rosy! Rosy!” A pitiful moan escapes his lips. “Where have you been? Why all this time?” and he bursts into childlike tears as he buries his face in her breasts, as his climax subsides, his penis already shrinking, all feeling is replaced by regret, guilt and sadness. His body slumps into a post-orgasmic helplessness. Veronica pulls her hands free and now cradles him in her arms as his whole weight pins her to the desk. She rubs his shirted back, conscious that she is also wiping her hands clean of his stickiness.
“There, there,” she sighs as she caresses his head. “I’m here. I won’t let anything take me away again.” She half lies, half sits and her stomach muscles ache as they support both bodies, but she makes herself breathe normally to counteract any tension, aware of what her body has to do to maintain the position. She can’t lean back any further, the ledge above the desk is in the way. He sobs bitterly and she gently rocks him back and forward. “Sssh,” she sighs, “Sssh.” And she can feel his hot tears trickling down her cleavage.
They hold this position for some minutes and just before Veronica begins to think that she is going to have to break it herself: her stomach muscles are screaming at her, the doctor abruptly stands up. He takes a few deep breaths, and avoids Veronica’s eyes as he rubs his hands roughly over his face, turns and pulls the curtain around the high bed and disappears behind it.
Veronica also stands, re-arranges her clothes, takes a small packet of moist tissues from her bag and wipes her hands and breasts thoroughly. She takes out a little compact from her bag and studies her makeup. She makes herself comfortable in her chair and crosses her legs again and waits, conscience of the ache of her stomach muscles slowly subsiding.
As she waits for the doctor to compose himself behind the curtain she glances over his desk. In the far corner is a framed family photo, the doctor, his wife, she assumes, and two children, a boy and a girl. The two children look a little too good to be true. The girl is smiling too hard, as if she has been smiling for too long and now doesn't quite understand why she has to go on smiling as the photographer keeps fussing around; why doesn't he just click the camera? She is dressed conservatively, churchly, a Sunday best that looks too much like something out of a Jane Austen novel; something perfect for a photograph but for nothing else. She leans into her parents happy, perhaps, to be included in something that includes grown-ups as well. The little boy is a little taller, seems a little more content with just smiling and waiting and looking as if he thinks the photographer is a dingbat. There is mischief in his smile, a glimmer of rebellion in his eye. The family looks like ... a family; an image of something Veronica knows about and usually scoffs at a little as if her family is more modern, more progressive, freer and more relevant. However, she has to admit her impression now has a forlorn taint to it: this is something someone else has and she doesn't. It speaks to her of stability, niggly warmth, and normality. The little boy reminds her of Jack, but Jack with a father; and does the wife remind her of herself; of Veronica with a husband? She suddenly has an image of life as a semi-transparent dome, smeared in some places, clear in others, that surrounds, limits our boundaries but keeps us safe, but she, now, is outside looking in, not looking out like the rest of humanity wishing about that ‘one day’ but looking in and seeing what she doesn’t have. She feels suddenly very alone. She looks away immediately and stares at the doctor's shoes peeking from under the curtain. He is taking an awfully long