Twisted Addiction

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  Twisted Addiction

  G. C. Whitewood

  Copyright © 2019 G. C. Whitewood

  All rights reserved; No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, of the author.

  Translation: Helene Hart

  Contents

  In The Beginning

  The Creation of Woman

  Idolatry

  A Servant Alone Is Free

  The World To Come

  Search The Heart and Test The Mind

  The World of Truth

  The Sacrifice

  Knowledge Is Power

  Say You are My Sister

  The Promised Land

  Chronicles

  Who Will Watch Over The Women?

  The Afterworld

  About the Author

  Message from The Author

  In The Beginning

  Creation

  And God said: “Let there be light,” and there was light.

  When Dalia saw Thomas for the first time, she thought the man was simply dazzling!

  In truth, that wasn’t an especially difficult feat. Neither against the backdrop of where they had met (the corridors of E.G.G., an ordinary advertising agency where Dalia served as account director, lacking any of the glamour one would expect from a firm in their business, where even the halls had been done in lackluster gray plaster), nor against the backdrop of her current life (a job that was not fulfilling, and had never been, a shaky relationship, the approaching holidays, which, unless she could make her relationship stop sputtering, she would be celebrating alone).

  Dalia was not feeling particularly dazzling herself. After all, she was considered a pretty girl (thick auburn hair in a ponytail, round perky breasts and a figure that was not slender but certainly not bad either. Brown eyes sprinkled with bright green that could hypnotize any man when directing the right look), and sometimes she even smiled contentedly at the image peeking at her from the mirror. But lately she was increasingly enshrouded in a kind of dullness, like an unflattering garment that could put down even the shapeliest of figures. Despite her murky state, or perhaps because of it, of late Dalia had begun to feel a certain affection towards Noah, her office suitor of the last five years. No, she wasn’t falling in love like in the movies, with fireworks and butterflies fluttering gleefully in her stomach, but rather, the need to know that someone truly loved her. Or at least that is what she told herself when those suspicious buds of affection appeared. Lately, however, the stringent version of the story she had been telling herself had softened a bit and at last she was considering responding to his advances, out of either curiosity or despondency, just to see what might happen. The impending holidays had definitely prompted her decision, she had to admit, and yet, who said that was not reason enough? History had repeatedly proven that people could get closer under worse circumstances. If by any chance she fell in love with Noah and they lived happily ever after, she could always conveniently refurbish the story backwards later on: “He courted me for years, and I wouldn’t even give him a second look,” she would tell her grandchildren when they came to interview her for their paper on How My Family Came to Be for school. “Until one day…”

  During this lunch break too, Dalia was sitting in the office kitchenette with Katya and Nelly, having the same conversation they’d had dozens of times. One of many recurring themes which changed somewhat depending on the latest events. The subject trending those days was Dalia and Noah.

  “He is charming,” Katya observed, “and it’s not like anything has ever come out of those loves at first sight. You need to think of yourself, and about what’s good for you in the long run.”

  “But Dalia is young and beautiful,” Nelly protested, “why does she have to compromise on someone she’s not really into? Maybe Mr. Right is waiting right around the corner. All you need is faith.” It wasn’t clear whether her words were meant for her friends or for some other, undefined audience. The only other audience in the room was made up of Oreo cookies lining a red plastic plate, leftovers from some not-so-important event that had taken place in the meeting room. For really important events, tastefully prepared healthy dishes were brought in, including pastry, regular and gluten free, as well as fancy fruit and vegetable platters. Special events, in all honesty, were not that common at E.G.G. Advertising.

  “I’m not exactly ‘not into him,’” Dalia confessed as she split a cookie and scraped off the white filling, “perhaps if I did try, it might happen. I just can’t bring myself to do the ultimate test of whether it’s yes or no.”

  “And this isn’t a test?” Nelly said vehemently. Katya was about to protest and argue in favor of the virtues of patience and self-improvement when in the middle of this exclusive-yet-generic discussion, Thomas strolled in.

  For a few days now, a rumor was running around the office, and had not missed the girls’ ears, about a client who had insisted his account be handled by an outsider, under the E.G.G. platform. The company had no reason to refuse. It still stood to gain from the deal, and in any case, this was a long-term profitable client account, and usually not too demanding. The executive who normally managed the account, was, naturally, less happy. Besides him, everyone else was quite curious to find out what was so special about an outside manager that made him worthy of such insistence.

  The man who entered the kitchen was speedily and thoroughly triple x-rayed. None of the attendees missed his expensive but not overly dressy clothes, wavy brown hair cut in a way that enhanced its thickness, impressive height, and the smile—oh, the smile—that looked like the classic toothpaste ad. The perfect smile was what made Dalia think this man, who looked like he’d just sprung out of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, and who had just entered the room, was from another story; a dazzling story, mysterious and thrilling, far away from Dalia’s daily routine comprised mostly of Noah and recycled conversations with Katya and Nelly. To her great surprise, and as the other two later corroborated, he addressed her directly.

  “Nice meeting you,” the man said. He had been facing the coffee machine, but the women’s banter made him turn towards the kitchen table, driven either by good manners or his taste for cookies. “I’m Thomas, manager of the Miller winter campaign. A temporary colleague, I guess. And how about you girls?”

  Though he said “girls,” his eyes skipped Katya (a generously low neckline and a garish pendant which the last remnants of good taste prevented from being shaped as an arrow pointing straight into her impressive cleavage), Nelly (blue eyes and a dress only someone who had nothing to hide would be wearing), and settled unequivocally on Dalia. The dazzling man, who up until a moment before had seemed not to belong in the story of her life, suddenly jumped to the top of the list of candidates to star in the plot.

  Thomas picked a cookie from the plate, and they broke out in a round of names and titles. When Dalia introduced herself, he said, “What a pretty name. It has meaning in more than one language. Flower, vine.” He was smart and thought she had a pretty name, two good enough reasons to blush. The conversation continued, now focusing on the New Year’s office party to take place a week later.

  “It must be a downer to attend the party at a different branch office,” Nelly remarked admiringly.

  Thomas nodded, replying, “Well, it isn’t that bad. And here, I already know some of the people. You are going to be there, ar
en’t you?” His gaze seemed a little lost, but, once again, it was directed at Dalia in a way that was hard to miss.

  “Sure,” Katya quickly reassured him.

  “Fantastic, so we’ll see each other there.” Thomas smiled and returned to his original objective (coffee), then left the room with a steaming cup.

  After watching him leave, Nelly declared in a triumphant tone, “I told you Dalia should not compromise! Did you see how he was magnetized by her?”

  “We don’t even know whether or not he’s married,” Dalia replied.

  “We don’t know yet,” Nelly clarified, “I’m on it!” Dalia concentrated on taking another cookie apart, but deep down inside she was hoping Nelly would keep her word and not forget to ask. For some reason still unknown to her, this dashing and clearly well-to-do man had skipped both of her friends, whose level of sexiness was higher than hers by any criteria, and focused his interest on her, of all people. She regretted not having chosen to wear a dress that morning instead of a white shirt (though it fit somewhat snugly) and a pencil skirt that accentuated her thighs, but no high heels to do it justice. That was in the morning, before she found out there was someone to get spruced up for. The industrial cookies, a trivial conversation between women, and thoughts of clothes. In the not-so-distant future, she would look back in amazement at the significant place these had in her former life.

  Later, while at her office working on a pitch she guessed (correctly) that the client would reject, Noah walked by, waving at her lankily, as was his habit. She realized sadly that the fragile feelings she was hoping were germinating in her had begun to fade, leaving him looking blurry and unattractive. “I was already about to marry someone else,” she would tell her grandchildren, “when along came Thomas.”

  There’s a limit to how much a woman can lie to herself. She can tell herself she doesn’t intend to sleep with a certain person that night. Especially if there is no logical reason to assume it might happen. But she knows exactly which bra she chose to wear under her dress. And there are not many other possible explanations about the care she took in checking the stubborn hair in her private parts and making sure her skin was soft and smooth under her stockings. Dalia overrode the need to explain herself to herself, and just didn’t give it another thought. Her body certainly was thinking of it without any help from her. And as she slipped into her black tight-fitting dress, over the expensive dainty black lacy bra; she felt so good she told herself that all this care was worth it just for the excitement.

  The New Year’s party was held on the roof of the building that housed E.G.G., overlooking an ugly urban landscape crowded with conventional office buildings. She had already attended countless parties there and the bleak view only added another layer to the grayish shell. Yet this time boredom skipped over her. Another new button had been added to her operating system: the mention of the word Thomas made her heart sprinkle colorful sparks like confetti. During the week, she had run into him almost daily:

  In the kitchen (Thomas walks up to the coffee machine as soon as Dalia finishes using it. He makes sure there is no actual physical contact, but the taut muscles in his arm almost touching her, send electric hints through the fabric of his shirt).

  In the corridor (Thomas greets her good morning and good afternoon, respectively, and then is on his way again, looking disappointed at not having any excuse to stay longer and continue the exchange).

  On the roof, which on normal days serves as an improvised corner for a lunch or smoke break. On one of those short breaks (the pace at E.G.G. did not allow for more than that), Dalia was on the roof with Nelly and another colleague, Ben, when Thomas arrived with a young woman they did not know, who was carrying a box of pastries, courtesy of a PR company the firm worked with. It was in the pleasant hours of the evening, the sun had just begun its descent, a cool, end of summer breeze sent a shiver through Dalia’s body, and she hugged herself. Seeing the unfamiliar girl, and a totally interested one at that, by Thomas’s side, seemed to also have contributed to the cold currents. But soon it became apparent she had no reason to worry.

  “Are you cold?” Thomas asked, undoing the buttons of the white shirt that accentuated his impressive upper chest. Taking the shirt off, he placed it over her shoulders, as usual, trying not to touch her.

  “Thanks,” Dalia whispered, not daring more than glance, yet inside, feeling completely willing to cuddle, expecting him to wrap his arms around her. The shirt smelled of detergent and a vague natural body scent combined with expensive after shave, and she had to stop herself from reaching for him. The wait (At this point she was positive that’s what it was. Not hope. Waiting.) was torment and pleasure.

  With each passing day, Dalia became more accustomed to his subtle advances, awed by the attraction he displayed towards her, of all people. She was, no doubt, the chosen woman. It was obvious not only to her but to anyone who worked at E.G.G. and had a pair of eyes. After all, there were better looking, more successful women at the office, who could have more naturally fit into the life of this mysterious, wealthy man. And yet he continued to show interest only in her.

  What does he see in me? she wondered. Her opening details were nothing to brag about, to say the least. She was born to a mother who was too young and rowdy, and she only survived her childhood thanks to good grades and the determination to free herself from her fate and aspire to a better life. As an adult she managed to find an acceptable job that did not even begin to scrape at her true talents, but at least paid the rent of the small, fourth-floor apartment, no elevator, she lived in. From the moment he stormed into her life, Thomas became the subject of her passion, starring in her fantasies, though in reality, she hoped he would never find out about her origins, and especially not where she lived. She would bury herself alive in shame if he would have asked for her address. And where did he live? She pictured a roomy penthouse, decorated to his taste by some chic designer, and Thomas, at the end of the workday, undoing his tie, pouring himself a glass of red wine, looking out the balcony at a breathtaking view. She didn’t know it, but, at least at that point in time, that was not far from the truth.

  On the evening of the party, Dalia arrived at the roof together with Katya, though the two soon split and Dalia took a seat alone by the makeshift bar. Neither of the men in her life—Thomas and Noah—had arrived yet. She told herself she would let God decide. Whoever appeared and turned to her first would get her attention. This plan appeared logical to her, but it seemed her body had already decided, and was crying “Thomas, oh, Thomas.” She was well justified in fearing that in case her brain went blind to priorities, she would point it in the right direction. The roof filled up gradually with the office staff, and quiet music created a pleasant atmosphere. She ordered a cocktail from the barman while scanning the comers and goers. She caught a glimpse of Noah standing on the far side, talking to one of the employees, a pretty good-looking guy whom she didn’t know. They each took a glass from the waitress who was weaving her way among the guests with a tray of alcoholic beverages. Though Noah searched the roof, he did not discern her. Dalia did not give him any further thought because instants later, Thomas arrived at the party, and then there was light.

  She turned her head away from the doorway, feeling his gaze searching for her. The sweet waiting was over. The feeling was free of the burning and unattainable longing she had felt the previous times she had fallen in love, which almost invariably ended in suffering and pain. Thomas was the only man in a space teeming with people, and he was making his way towards her, the only spot of color in a gray crowd of people who, up to a week earlier, had filled her world.

  Sitting down by her side, he asked the barman for a beer and said, “I was hoping you’d come.” The sweet liquid she was sipping began to emit signals inside her. She was freshly showered and perfumed, feeling pretty and feminine. So much so that for the first time in her life she did something she had always avoided doing and
parted her lips for him in a trusting smile.

  The evening followed a well-planned pattern; the boss made a toast that sounded like it had been taken off an automatic toast-generator, devoid of any meaning to employers, including the jokes. The employees chuckled politely when the tone mandated. Noah ultimately found her, sending glances to the bar she chose to ignore. Nelly, from the other side of the roof, gave her a thumbs up, like in a cheesy girly movie. Did human beings truly use that sign before cinema came into the world? Who cared. Nothing could compare to the growing passion spreading through the black lacy panties she was wearing, and Thomas, who remained by her side for the duration of the entire speech and the clinking of glasses, still hovered above her without really touching her, looking like he was enveloped by the same kind of anticipation. The speeches were over, the music was turned up a bit louder, signaling for people to dance, which none of them would seriously have considered doing. She gazed at him, and, for a moment, a mutual silence hung between them, two people about to explode.

  Thomas was the one to break the tension. Placing his glass on the bar, he said, “There’s something I want to tell you, but I don’t feel comfortable here. Would you mind if we left?” And for the first time, he stretched out his arm. Taking his hand, she strode after him. It appeared everyone else on the roof terrace receded for them to go through as they left the roof and headed down to the empty offices. He led her gently towards his and made her lean gently against the wall as he whispered, “I know I’m supposed to ask you out for dinner first and get to know you. I swear I will do that. But I can’t hold back any longer. Would you allow me to kiss you now, and put it on my account?” Dalia nodded. It had taken her five years not to recoil at the thought of kissing Noah. The week in which she had not yet kissed Thomas had been interminable.

  So this is what it feels like when one wants someone very much? The thought cruised through her mind, creamy and sweet. Thomas drew increasingly wider circles on her cheeks with his finger, which slowly turned into a caress. His hand was warm and familiar. Closing her eyes, she gave in to his touch. And then, after a sweet eternity, he kissed her at last. It was a good, pleasant kiss, filled with passion. His hand stroked her arm, her thigh, and from there it slipped downwards, probing gently, waiting for a refusal that didn’t materialize, underneath her dress, between her legs. He inserted a finger into her and moved it in delicate circles.