POLITICS AS USUAL
by Downing Street (dowstreet@yahoo.com)
PART II
Mayor Downs began his exploration the very next morning. “Ms Belleflueur, come in here a minute, please,” he said into the phone. He set down the receiver just as his assistant walked in. Today she wore a navy blue skirt and jacket with a light blue blouse. The skirt was calf-length. She looked impeccable, as always.
“Yes Sir?” she asked.
He waved her over to the desk. It was mostly empty but for two white handkerchiefs, neatly folded, sitting about a foot apart. “I’m trying an experiment,” he said. “Concerning . . . uhm, laundry soap. I think my cleaning service is leaving a residual odour.” He pointed at the tissue on the left. “Smell that one, please.”
She did so. She lifted the folded tissue to her nose and inhaled. She reflected for a moment, as if she were tasting wine. “I don’t notice much of anything,” she said. “It smells clean. A bit of lemon.”
“Now the other one.” He kept his voice calm.
She repeated the sniff test. She wrinkled her nose. “That one has a musty odour. Has it been used?”
The Mayor studied her. “You don’t feel . . . I mean, you don’t notice anything else?”
She shrugged. “Sorry. But if that is the best your cleaners can do, you should definitely switch laundries.”
Her employer let out a sigh. “Very well Ms Belleflueur, that will be all.”
The blonde assistant consulted her tablet. “Don’t forget that Counsellor Malton is expecting a call back. Yesterday.” Mayor Downs admired the back-and-forth sway of her skirt as she left the office.
Two days later, His Honour the Mayor was on the phone again. “Look, Lucinda, I hear you. You’re absolutely right, the number nine route should be extended, but we simply can’t. We can’t do anything new or interesting until we fix that bastardly Belmont Bridge. It’s our main artery to downtown and we’re not getting any help.
“What’s that? No, it has to be this year, before the election. I’m not running again. Yes, I know I said that, but I’m serious this time. Yes, I know I said that too, but . . .” He paused as a new thought struck him. “Lucinda, I’ll call you again tomorrow. We’ll work something out. Bye for now.”
He set down the phone. He stared at it for a minute, as if it might ring spontaneously. He picked up the receiver and pushed a button. “Ms. Belleflueur, come in here, please,” he said.
Seconds later the door opened. His executive assistant walked in, looking as delicate and perfect as ever. Today she was wearing a classic outfit of black slacks and black jacket, coupled with a white blouse and her usual, low-heeled pumps. Her hair was pinned up. Her ever-present tablet rested in one hand.
“Have a seat,” her boss instructed. He waved toward the trio of comfortable chairs in front of his desk. She sat.
The mayor’s office was big, but cluttered with too much furniture, including a conference table, a wet bar, numerous potted plants and a grandfather clock. Windows on two walls looked out over the city. The other walls were hung with pictures and posters, artwork and flags. Framed photographs and memorabilia formed a palisade around the outside rim of the Mayor’s desk.
Mayor Streeter P. Downs leaned back in his chair. He considered his attractive EA for a long time. At length he said, “Ms. Belleflueur, how long have you been working at City Hall?”
She raised a slender eyebrow. “A little less than four years,” she replied. “You’ll recall that you hired me shortly after the last election. I have been working in your office for eleven months.”
“Right, right. Eleven months. Since Wilma retired. Right. That should be long enough, if Churchill isn’t punking me. Of course, no way to be sure, is there.”
“Sir?”
He came back to Earth. “Sorry. Well, how is this job working out? Are you happy?”
“The posting is satisfactory, Sir.”
“Satisfactory. Right. Not sure what that means, but never mind.” He waved a hand. “How are things generally? You know, are you busy, enjoying life, taking up a new hobby, remodelling your flat, seeing someone?”
“Sir, you know that I disapprove of questions concerning my personal life.”
The response was as he had expected. He said, “Yes, you have made that clear on several occasions.” The Mayor rested his chin in one hand. “Tell me one thing though, so I can know you a little better: Are you in a relationship right now?” He tossed the question out casually, as if that would soften the rebuke that was sure to follow.
“I’m unattached right now,” his employee answered calmly. “I was going out for a while with a lad from Transit Division, but it didn’t work out.”
The Mayor stared at her. This was a major admission from the close-guarded Belleflueur. He said, “Was it serious?”
“That is a private affair. Can we confine this conversation to work matters?”
“But . . . but . . . you just told me . . .” His Honour was rarely at a loss for words.
He tried again. “What I’m trying to get at is the quality of your work environment. Have you felt anything . . . I don’t know, unusual, since your started working here? Weird vibes or such?”
She gave him a puzzled look. “Sir?”
He waved his arms around. “Sometimes people feel . . . odd attractions in the workplace, even when there is no . . . real expression of interest, or suggestive behaviour, or . . . they just feel it. Do you follow me?”
“I’m afraid not, Sir.”
“Well, look, you must have interactions with other worker bees here at City Hall. What is the mood like? Tell me how you met your ex, the fellow from Transit Division.” Damn! Too late he realized that he had over-stepped again.
Belleflueur said: “We use the same lift to get to the office. There’s always a line-up in the morning. We got to chatting while we waited. Eventually he asked me out.”
Another surprising revelation. He decided to run with it. “Fine, perfectly typical. And you have never felt . . . anything like . . . an attraction, an affinity, toward anyone else here? I mean, someone who hasn’t directly approached you? Never felt anything in the air, an undercurrent, an aura or . . . whatever . . . around City Hall?”
“Sir, I’m not sure what you are getting at.”
“Neither and I,” the Mayor admitted. “Neither am I. You’re workday is entirely normal, then? You haven’t noticed anything untoward since you started in my office?”
“Not at all, Sir. Though you do have rather a lot of meetings. They keep me busy.”
“Ah! But does the office feel . . . different in any way when I’m not here?”
“It’s quieter, of course. But there is still scheduling. And phone calls.”
A long pause. Mayor Downs decided to give it one more go before admitting defeat. “The work environment here can sometimes be very . . . charged. Dedication sometimes becomes obsession. It can affect people’s behaviour. Have you felt any new . . . compulsions recently? You know, sudden urges to do something radically different, or . . . I don’t know, take on a new attitude, dye your hair, join a cult?”
“I hardly think so Sir. I added some more flowers around my desk.”
“Bah!” exclaimed the Mayor. “I think I’ve been hornswoggled. By my own cousin.” He studied the slender young woman seated in front of him. She radiated confident professionalism. “Stand up for a minute,” he said. “Let me get a look at you.”
Belleflueur stood up. She buttoned her jacket.
“Put down your tablet.”
She set it on the corner of his desk. She regarded him patiently.
The Mayor hid his surprise that she hadn’t objected again. He was thinking things out on the fly. Even the sexless suit his blonde assistant was wearing failed to hide the graceful curves underneath. Was there something in her flawless comportment that itself signalled something hidden? Or was he projecting? He needed to probe a little deeper.
“Ms Belleflueur, how much do you weigh?”
“Sir, we are digressing into personal matters again. You know—”
“Tell me your weight. It’s not a state secret.”
“I was one-hundred and nine pounds this morning,” Belleflueur replied. She seemed to shiver for a moment.
Her answer suggested a commitment to weight control. Maybe that was an angle? “I suppose you exercise to keep fit?” he said, trying to make it conversational.
It didn’t work. “Sir, why do I have to keep reminding you—”
“Tell me how you keep in shape!” He was growing impatient.
“I run. Generally in the mornings, before work. I also work out after work, when I have time. I’m careful about my diet. I try to stay away from empty calories. There’s always doughnuts in the lunch room. Ugh! Who eats those things?” She shivered again, then ran one hand around the back of her neck.
“Who indeed,” said the Mayor, who was too fond of doughnuts. “Very well, Ms. Belleflueur, thank you for your time. I am relieved to hear that your work environment is comfortable.”
His gorgeous executive assistant retrieved her tablet. “Don’t forget your meeting with Maintenance Division at three,” she said.
“Maintenance? Why would I be meeting them?”
“To explain why you cancelled all the equipment upgrades you promised last year.”
The Mayor groaned. “Right, right. I may blow up that damned bridge.” He watched his assistant primly leave the room.
As soon as she was gone he leapt to his feet. He began pacing back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. If anyone would respond to his (theoretical) magic mojo it would be Belleflueur. She had been working right beside him for most of a year.
The interview, however, had revealed nothing. Her demeanour was unflappable. And yet, several times she had revealed personal details, without hesitation, even after berating Downs for asking about them. That didn’t make sense. Unless . . . . He paced for a long while, reviewing the conversation line by line.
The Mayor stopped. His face broke into a broad smile. “I’ve got it!” he all but shouted. “By George I’ve got it! By George I’ve got it!” He meant that in two senses.
A wild test of a wild theory was in order. He marched over to his desk and picked up the telephone. “Ms Belleflueur, get in here again,” he snapped. “Leave your tablet behind.”
Seconds later Genevieve Belleflueur appeared in the doorway. “Sir?” she said.
The Mayor didn’t speak for several heartbeats. What if he was wrong? What if he was seeing something that wasn’t there, only because he so badly wanted it to be there? What if Churchill was out to lunch and he was indeed about to make a colossal fool of himself? He drew a deep breath.
“Ms Belleflueur, take off your jacket.”
She complied, wordlessly but immediately. She hung the jacket over one arm.
“Give it to me.”
She crossed the space to stand in front of his desk. She handed him her jacket. Her face was unreadable.
Downs looked at it briefly, then set it aside. He was no fan of black clothing. “Tell me where you bought the jacket,” he said.
Belleflueur said, “From Miss Terious, a boutique on Wallace Way. They sell good quality business clothing.”
“Tell me how much your outfit cost.”
She told him. The suit wasn’t cheap. Now there was a trace of colour in the blonde’s voice.
Now for the acid test. Mayor Downs picked up a pair of scissors. He handed them to his assistant. “Ms Belleflueur, take these scissors and punch a whole in your trousers, a little below the pocket of the right leg. Then cut it open to below the knee.”
Time stretched into a single, endless second. Downs held his breath. He would have sworn that the grandfather clock stopped ticking. Then Genevieve Belleflueur took the scissors from the Mayor’s hand. She jabbed a hole in her pricey dress slacks, and sliced a two-foot-long rip down the leg. She handed the scissors back. Her face was flushed.
“Sir, I—” she began.
“Be quiet. Ms Belleflueur, you are not dressed appropriately for a City Hall office. Your trousers have a big tear in them. This is unprofessional. Take your break time to go out and buy some new clothes.”
“Y-yes Sir.” She was breathing deeply.
Mayor Downs kept his own face stern. Inside, he was doing cartwheels. “There is more,” he said. “First, you are not to wear any clothing from this Miss Terious shop to City Hall ever again. Dark and drab and boring. Throw away everything you already have. Find a shop where they sell pretty clothes for real women. Second, from now on this office has a skirts-only policy. All your skirts will end at least three inches above the knee and none will be black. Hose and heels required. These rules apply at all times, including evenings and weekends or when you are just popping in to pick up something. Are we clear?”
“Oh god, yes Sir!” Belleflueur blurted. She was panting now. She ran both hands up and down her body, eyes half closed. “Is there, is there, anything (huff, huff) anything else you would like me to do—Sir?” Eagerness shone in her voice.
He waved a hand. “That will do for now. We’ll make more adjustments as we go. Now get out of here and come back properly dressed. Remember, sex appeal is your first priority. Your only priority.”
“Y-Yes, Sir,” his turned-on assistant cried. She rubbed her crotch for a few seconds, moaning. Then she turned and made her unsteady way toward the door.
“Wait, there’s one more thing,” Downs cried. Belleflueur stopped like a dog at the end of its chain. “From now on you will respond to Genevieve. Or Ginny. Or Jenny, or Viva, or Sweetmeat, or any other name I care to give you. Belleflueur is the name on your driver’s licence, nothing more. Understand?”
“Yes! Yes-Yes-YES! Ahhhhhh!” Ginny crumpled over in orgasm, right there in the Mayor’s office. She groaned and spasmed again and again as surf-waves of pleasure broke over her. She grabbed the back of a chair with one hand to keep from falling. The other hand shamelessly kneaded her crotch, prolonging the peak. Even Downs could tell that her orgasm was intense.
Slowly, slowly, she came down from the big O. She drew in long, deep breaths. “I’ll uhm, I’ll, b-be going now, Sir,” she murmured. “Oh god, so good, so good.”
Her ripped pant leg flashed skin with each step as she walked out. Her hair had fallen out of its bun. She didn’t fix it.
Mayor Streeter P. Downs let out his breath. He flopped into his chair. His assistant wasn’t the only one who was sexed up. Downs had an erection like an iron rod. Grinning, he took out his mobile and punched a number. When a voice answered he asked to be connected to Churchill Downs. “Churchy!” he cried, “How would you like to be Citizen of the Year!”