The Farrington Diaries

Something a little different for today's post. One of our readers, Rob, was kind enough to send me the first chapter of a rather well written story and I thought it would be nice to share it. The artwork is also by one of his friends. Enjoy!

CHAPTER ONE

 

Breaking Bad Habits

 

            The wackiest idea I ever had for a play that I never wrote came to me on a November day as I chomped into a pumpernickel bagel.  That winter my mother's friend, Hermione, while improving her skiing in Switzerland, had graciously invited me to housesit her apartment on West 73rd.

 

            On Sunday mornings, I would assemble the percolator and dash around the corner to World O' Bagels.  The owner's daughter always made it a point to take my order herself.  "How's the professor?" she would ask.  Her flirtation that particular day prompted her to slide a pumpernickel bagel into the white bakery bag with my standard order of two onion bagels to go.  Just possibly, it was the suede patches on my thrift-shop, tweed jacket which prompted the spontaneous love offering.

 

            I finished the crossword in the Times as well as the onion bagels slathered with cream cheese.  The slosh of the coffee pot indicated enough for one more mug.  To leave the gift bagel uneaten seemed more ungentlemanly than I cared to be.  Juggling the postscript to my breakfast, I set the dark brown wheel of a bagel on Hermione's book-laden coffee table.  My boots created a fleeting arc before they landed in the corner by the silk fica trees.

 

            Settling in on the long white sofa, I held the classified section of CityLife magazine propped against my knees.  Glancing at the personals -- boy wants girl, boy wants boy, boy wants girl and boy, etc. -- I simultaneously visualized a play in three acts with seven actors based on these terse ads.  I bit into the bagel, quickly realizing that the gooey, crunchy mixture in my mouth was some of my dentist's best amalgam filling.

 

            Then came the damning tirade wherein bagels and lovestruck teenage girls equally shared my stomping wrath.  Vented, but unable to keep my tongue from constantly reaffirming the new crater in my mouth, I returned to the magazine having momentarily forgotten my inspiration for instant success on Broadway.

 

            Under the heading "Professional Help Wanted," a single boxed ad in reverse type captured my attention. There was haunting poetry in the words "Ghost Writer" appearing in white typeface on a small blanket of black. The ad explained that aspirants for the position should apply in writing to a post office box number stating qualifications and providing a telephone number. 

 

            Thoughts of pain and plays died as hope was born.  That my cash flow situation might soon change direction and head toward positive motivated me to reply within the hour.  The third and final draft of my reply factually listed my recently-acquired master's degree in English, my just-published chapbook of poems and my immediate availability. 

 

            In the event that it might be important to this prospective employer, I emphasized in the last paragraph that I could be counted on in the area of discretion as well as syntax.

 

            After mailing my application, I expected every ring of the telephone to be from this individual, whom I imagined was either too inept or too busy to do his own word work. 

 

            On Thursday afternoon, while I was at the New York Public Library researching Union Army military insignia for my poem about the taking of Richmond, the individual who placed the ad phoned.  As I retell this, I am aware that I never for an instant believed the placer of the ad to be a woman.  In fact, I was right.  The voice on my answering machine was male, mature, certainly educated if not also refined -- and cautious.  The caller politely requested my presence in The Adirondack Hotel bar at six o'clock the following evening for drinks.  Ask for Brett Farrington.  The bartender would know.  A local telephone number was left for "regrets only."

 

            I chose my clothes for the interview carefully.  Jeans and tweeds would not inspire the confidentiality that I had promised, I thought to myself.  A business suit?  Nah.  I wanted him to know that I could write, not prepare his tax returns.  Then, it struck me.  The combination of grey flannels and blue blazer would be just the ticket. Mainstream enough to be accepted by the establishment and when worn with a natty, navy blue-striped shirt and subdued, red tie, sartorially au courant enough to be recognized as someone in the arts.  Yet, at the same time, professional.  It was perfect.

 

            Trying to dodge the raindrops, I bolted from the cab and pushed my way through The Adirondack's revolving doors.  When my hand gripped the wet brass push bar, I felt the cold climb up through my arm before it turned and traveled down to my toes.  The sensation suddenly froze my self-confidence and left me unaccountably nervous.  In retrospect, I recall my instincts warning me that I was about to commence a conversation unlike any other in my life.

 

            In the hallowed confines of The Adirondack's bar, I counted seven unaccompanied male patrons.  Among them, three held down tables by themselves.  The others sat at the bar.

 

            The bartender was busy pouring drinks, so I decided to test my skill at matching voices with faces. Scanning the tables, my eyes passed over a middle-aged, gray-suited man wearing a western bola tie, then on to a portly, younger man half-asleep over an imported beer.

 

            The third man, clearly the most venerable of the candidates for Brett Farrington, sat at one of the small round tables apart from the others.  He was engrossed in the distinctive peach-colored pages of The Financial Times, which he read through a pair of tortoise shell half-glasses under a small amber circle of light falling from the brass ship's lantern mounted on the wall above.  Momentarily, he looked up from his newspaper and a split second later motioned me to join him.

 

            The resonant, well-defined voice I had heard only as it sounded trapped in my answering machine belonged to this silver-haired man wearing a hand-tailored, three-piece suit.  When he stood to greet me, six-footer that I am, I had to look up to meet his eyes.  Despite the barroom gloom, I could see he was a man of the outdoors.  I'd have immediately cast him for the role of the squire in an English drawing room murder mystery.

 

            We shook hands.  Then, came self-introductions, followed by some brief, small talk about the downpour outside.  We both took seats, and I told him how I had come to respond to his advertisement.  I was about to make reference to some writing projects I had completed, when he interrupted me.

 

            "Unnecessary, my boy.  Totally.  I assure you," Farrington declared in clipped, upper-class British tones. He spoke flawless Queen's English. 

 

            "You're the man for the job," he continued.  "Absolutely no doubt about it.  None whatsoever."

 

            I was frankly puzzled.

 

            "Thank you very much," I said with some hesitancy.  "But, would you like to see some samples of my work or perhaps..."

 

            He interrupted me again.  "Nonsense.  You are the right man.  Your assignment will be to write my life's story or the parts of it I deem worth the telling."  He squinted a bit, adding, "You are just the person to do it."

 

            Again, I started to protest.  "But, we haven't discussed a time frame, fees..."

 

            "No need to, my boy.  None.  Whatever the going rate is in New York these days for this kind of work is what you'll be paid," he said.  "Plus something extra, of course, for the discretion you claim in your letter."

 

            His cocksure attitude was beginning to irritate me.  "But, I'm not sure that I'm free right now to..."

 

            "Please," he interrupted, drawing the word out.  "Don't make the mistake of rejecting my offer."  He tugged on his left sleeve, pulling the French cuff back into alignment.  "You have a master's degree with your name still wet on the parchment.  You're living gratis in a flat provided by a family friend, a Hermione something-or-other. You've been seeking office work under the auspices of a temporary agency, and you have less than three hundred dollars in your checking account.  No money, no prospects, and no girl friend at the moment, for that matter."

 

            As I sat speechless, he caught the server's eye and ordered a refill of his tomato and clam juice cocktail. Then, he looked at me questioningly.

 

            "Scotch and water?  Water on the side?" he asked me, as the server waited for the order.

 

            Nodding my assent, I was flabbergasted that Farrington  obviously had me investigated.

 

            He continued, "You see, my boy, I have a sixth sense about people and their character.  It's a skill one develops -- as opposed to a talent one brings into the world at birth."

 

            Once more, I tried to pose a question.  "But how do you..."

 

            "Doesn't matter.  Not in the least.  It only matters that the information is one hundred percent accurate," he said.  "Saves a lot of time, really."

 

            The server delivered our drinks.  Farrington briefly sipped from his glass.  He obviously engaged his sixth sense to discern the uncertainty that I was feeling. 

 

            He leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner.  "Full of misgivings are you?  More than a tad incredulous? Feeling a bit railroaded, as we used to say?"  He smiled.  "Enjoy your drink, my boy.  Meanwhile, let me see if I can't put you at ease."

 

            At that point I wanted very much to be relaxed and at the same time not lose this chance for solvency that had been dumped in my lap.  Was this guy from the CIA or what?  The wood smoke aroma of the Scotch helped settle my nerves a bit.

 

            "What I suggest is that we schedule two or three meetings a week, each for a few hours.  I'll start at the beginning -- you asking whatever questions come to your mind and taking notes.  Perhaps, it might require about three months," Farrington said.  "After that, you'll have six months to create a first draft.  We'll edit it together, more or less, and in a year or so the book will be completed."

 

            He took another sip of his drink, then continued, "You'll make your decision before you leave the table and whatever you decide will be considered final by both of us.  I hope I make myself clear."

 

            He was telling me that I wouldn't get a second chance and doing it in a style I rather admired.  However, I still had one embarrassing question that begged asking. 

 

            "With all due respect," I began.  "If you'll forgive my saying so, as interesting as

we all feel our lives are...well, not everyone has a life story that warrants a major investment of time and money."

 

            Surprisingly, Farrington appeared to agree.  "Quite so, quite so," he said.  Then, he looked at me for a few moments before breaking the silence.

 

            "My boy," he responded in a paternalistic tone, "if you will kindly sit here with me and your Glenlivet for a bit longer, I'm sure you'll agree that my story might indeed hold a reader's interest."

 

            Farrington leaned slightly forward, cautiously glancing around the room to observe whether anyone might be eavesdropping.      

  

           He then continued, "There was an incident that occurred when I was a lad of eighteen that transformed the course and direction of my life.  The story I am about to relate will utterly convince you of how unique my experiences have been and at the same time how important a role they played in my life."

 

            "Seems fair enough," I replied.

 

            Farrington then began to recount one of the strangest stories I have ever heard.

 

            "It was the summer of 1937.  We were living in Hampstead -- one of the London suburbs -- and my father had accepted a summer teaching post in Nigeria.  Arrangements had been made for me to stay with my mother's sister, Lydia, and her husband in Gloucestershire.

 

            "Aunt Lydia and Uncle Malcolm lived on a country estate complete with stables, tennis court and even a running brook.  I had visited there before and was most fond of my aunt and uncle.  And though I didn't know it at the time, this visit was to be quite different.

 

            "First, I might note that Aunt Lydia married Uncle Malcolm when both had reached middle age.  They had no children of their own.  However, Uncle Malcolm's brother had a son and a daughter, both of whom were doted upon by Uncle Malcolm.

 

            "Upon my arrival, I learned that my visit was to coincide with that of my uncle's aforementioned nephew and niece, Nigel and Alexa. 

 

            "Nigel and I instantly became fast friends.  He was a year younger than I, and as lads often do, he saw me as a role model. Alexa, who was nineteen, was scarcely by a year my senior.  However, her bearing and poise were those of a well-bred young lady.  There was nothing in the least skittish about her, if you know what I mean."

 

            Farrington paused momentarily to pick up his drink from the table, took a few sips, then continued.

 

            "The first few weeks of the summer vacation were idyllic.  Nigel and I wandered the acreage, exploring, discovering small animals, fishing and swimming in an inviting pond on the estate.

 

            "Then, one night at dinner, quite unexpectedly, Uncle Malcolm announced to us that he and Aunt Lydiawere leaving early the next morning for Devon, where his dear friend, a Mr. Wilcox, lay seriously ill.  They would be away for an indefinite period.  We were to obey the housekeeper, Mrs. Collings, he admonished us.  However, he was designating his niece, Alexa, as the senior family member, to act as official head of household during his absence."

 

            Another sip of scotch traveled down my throat.  It knew it's way by now. 

 

            "My uncle's announcement left no particular impression on me, and following their departure the next morning, Nigel and I resumed our explorations.

 

            "I should add here that during my eighteenth year, I was in that stage of development which many youths find rather awkward," he said.  At the same time, he briefly peered at me over his half-glasses, perhaps to gauge my reaction.

 

            I nodded to let him know I understood. 

 

          Farrington wore a wafer-slim Movado watch on his left wrist, but yet referred to puberty in such a circumspect way.  Nice anomaly here, I thought.            

 

          He continued, "One morning, Nigel and I were on our way to the woods, taking a path that brought us near the stables.  As we approached, I could see that Alexa was leading a freshly-saddled horse toward the large oval riding ring.  I turned my head in curiosity as I had always liked horses.  Nigel tugged at my arm, impatient as youngsters often are, but I resisted him and walked nearer to the ring.  Nigel followed me reluctantly, and we both took up spectator positions along the fence railings.

 

            "Alexa and her horse, a well-proportioned, dappled gray stallion with a distinctive black mane and tail, had already reached the inside of the ring.  In case you might be curious as to whether I was attracted by the horse or the rider, let me make it clear that it was not the horse.

 

            "I'll tell you what my eyes saw:  Alexa was strikingly tall.  She stood about five feet nine inches.  She was full-bodied and most attractive," he added, peering over his glasses once more to see if I was following.

 

            "I saw not a 'pretty girl,' but a very handsome young woman who was preparing to mount a splendid-looking and spirited animal," he said.

 

            "It was a magnificent summer day -- quite rare in England, you know -- and the sunlight played on her chestnut brown hair, which was rich with color.  That morning, she wore her hair in neat braids, pinned up and wrapped closely around her head."

 

            Farrington had me hooked, and I now listened intently.  The way his eyes lighted up, undoubtedly from a passion that still burned inside him, told me that this young woman would play no small part in his biography.

 

            "Her face wore her intelligence," he continued.  "Young as she was, one knew just by looking at her that she would be the responsible sort.  She appeared strong of character, yet not at the cost of her femininity.

 

            "For some reason, when I focused my attention on her that morning, it was as if I were seeing her for the first time, and as such, the occasion is recalled with extreme vividness.  Every detail is as clear in my mind's eye today as it was that summer day, many years ago.

 

            "Alexa rode in a pair of fawn breeches.  They fitted her perfectly, I might add.  Her well-defined, long legs were anchored to the earth by the tall, brown boots she wore.  The boots were equipped with spurs. 

 

            "Her abundant bosom swelled within a long-sleeved, white shirt contrasted by a wide burgundy tie, which was the style among equestrians at that time.

 

            "I watched her pull on a pair of tight-fitting leather riding gloves, then cover the luxurious crown of her braided hair with a black velvet-covered protective helmet.  Firmly positioned in her right hand was a thick brown leather riding crop.

 

            "She mounted, took up the double reins and, using her heels, signaled the animal to walk.  After a few minutes, she called on him to trot.  When he failed to immediately obey her, using her whip -- while seated tall in the saddle -- she resolutely applied a couple of well-placed smacks to his rump.  Simultaneously, she applied her gleaming, chrome-plated spurs -- each with their tiny sharp rowels -- to her mount's flanks with exacting precision.    "Her facial expression, however, betrayed no indication of displeasure.  Nor did I notice any sign of satisfaction when he, receiving her message, promptly fell into a trot.  As a matter of fact, she appeared without emotion during the entire transaction.  It was as though she were driving an automobile and had merely shifted gears.     

 

            "For the next half hour, I stood at the rail mesmerized.  New feelings came alive inside my lanky body. And I tell you, quite honestly, that had my life depended upon it, I could not have given a name to what I was experiencing.  There was warm pleasure and chilly confusion in equal parts, and, more significantly, somewhere deep within my psyche, a sense of...not danger, but risk.  At that moment, an explanation of what was happening to me would have been impossible.  But, I tell you the sense that I had just crossed over into a universe I'd not previously known was as immense and as real as this table." 

 

            He thumped the table with the side of his fist causing me to start and the drinks to slosh in unison.

 

            As Farrington unwound his tale, I began to feel a rumble inside and sent my facial muscles stern orders to display a poker face until further notice. 

 

            How was it that he chose me to write his biography?  No doubt, an unemployment line filled with starving writers replied to his ad.  Why not one of them?  Was it simply chance or did he really possess a sixth sense?

 

            Farrington continued, "My eyes had no choice but to follow her every motion.  She sat erect and regal in the saddle.  Her attitude was serious and businesslike, and she tolerated no nonsense from her mount.  Whatever exercises she and the horse embarked upon -- be it changing leads, moving him from a trot into a canter or taking jumps -- the maneuvers were executed with precision and full self-confidence on her part.  It was quite clear that she maintained complete control over him at all times.     

 

          "Whenever he failed to respond at once to her command or in the particular manner she wished, she wasted not a moment in correcting him.  After pulling him up and taking a tight hold on the reins with one hand, she masterfully applied her whip to his  ample flanks, administering truly meaningful punishment. 

 

            "What impressed me was both her remarkable strength and her determination.  Throughout, she never wavered nor lost her patience.  Quite the contrary, she delivered each smack to the animal's backside without discernible change in her composure."

 

            Farrington paused to take another sip from his glass, while again glancing over at me.  Poker face, don't fail me now!

 

            He resumed, "It became abundantly clear to me that she demanded absolute obedience from her mount, willing or unwilling, and she exacted it.

 

            "Interestingly, however, she never seemed to take any notice of my presence.  Nigel wandered off, only to reappear a half-hour later to learn what had become of me.  He again tugged at my arm.  He coaxed me to accompany him, but I brushed him aside.  Finally, I yielded, realizing that remaining there might cause him to ask questions I didn't want to answer or that his high-pitched voice -- it hadn't changed yet -- might draw attention.

 

            "We turned toward the woods and walked together about a quarter mile before I begged off, saying that I must return to the house in order to write a letter to my parents, which needed to go into the morning post.

 

            "On the return walk to the manor, my imagination carried me away and my arousal was so great that I dared not be seen in such a condition.  When I entered the foyer, the housekeeper, Mrs. Collings, was engrossed in straightening a large oil portrait of someone's dusty relative.  Her back was toward me, so I greeted her and just as quickly ascended the wide staircase to the second floor, where I immediately went to my room.  I was relieved that the housekeeper's eyes had not rested upon me as my trousers were outstretched in a most embarrassing fashion.

 

            "Once inside my room, I fell onto the bed and for a short time daydreamed of Alexa astride her mount.  I recalled every morsel of the vivid episode I had just witnessed in the riding ring.  Feeding my youthful exhuberance, I lay absorbed with the image of this poised equestrian while completely lost in fantasy.  I was at the center of my own illusion with Alexa circling me round and round until I felt a pulsating vortex had been created wherein I swirled in rapturous delight.  Alexa, on the stallion, rode through my whole being, and as I let go of the last vestiges of rationality, I saw her dismount the horse and come astride me.  Instantly, as it is in dreams, she was free of her riding breeches, shirt and tall boots, and her long chestnut brown hair was loose and flowing over her proud and generous breasts.  Now, I was miraculously naked also and we were locked in a passionate and frenzied embrace.

 

            "When I realized that I could no longer endure the exquisite torment of this sexual fantasy, I hastened to the private bath adjoining my room, where I quickly disrobed.  My intention was to seek relief under the shower, invoking pubescent youth's dependable standby -- copious amounts of soap and running hot water.

 

            "However, completely unbeknownst to me, Mrs. Collings, a rather prudish woman, had come to my room to see if I might have taken ill.  I had locked the bedroom door before stepping into the shower, and had no idea -- none whatever -- that my privacy would be invaded.

 

            "Later, I learned that Mrs. Collings had knocked and waited for a reply which wasn't forthcoming.  She then used her housekeeper's key to unlock the door and entered the bedroom to make certain that all was well.  When she found the bedroom unoccupied, she proceeded toward the bathroom.  Evidently, her eyesight was not failing, and she got quite a start, or so she claimed, when she opened the door, which wasn't fitted with a lock, and saw my rather active endeavors silhouetted against the almost transparent shower curtain."

 

            The server came and again exchanged empty glasses for full ones.

 

            "It turned out," Farrington continued, "at the moment the housekeeper was descending the stairs while ranting about my misbehavior, Alexa was returning from the stable.  One can only guess exactly what Mrs. Collings reported to her; but whatever it was, it was enough to put me in serious trouble.

 

            "Alexa, upon receiving the housekeeper's report, took it upon her shoulders, as acting head of household, to deal with the matter promptly.  She informed Mrs. Collings that she would take responsibility for administering discipline and dispatched her to return to her duties."

 

            I felt warm.  Maybe it was the Scotch.  Meanwhile, Farrington took a sip of his drink in a most dignified manner. 

 

            He then continued, "Unaware of what was occuring outside the shower stall, I was in a state of high excitement and nearing a peak, when over the roar of the shower I heard a noise.  It was an unmistakable sound -- the clip-clop of hard-heeled English riding boots on the bathroom tile floor.  My boyish heart nearly stopped beating when the shower curtain was unceremoniously drawn back and I was exposed."

 

            Farrington leaned back in his chair and adjusted his cuffs.

 

            "Well, there I stood.  Lathered all over, flagpole and all.  Quite a predicament, don't you see?"          

 

            I did understand. 

 

            "Appearing before me, however, was not the awakening embodiment of my morning's dream -- a lover with whom I was about to share an intimate encounter -- but instead, the real Alexa.  Quite real, I must tell you.  Her commanding presence filled the steamy bathroom as she stood majestically, hands on hips, glaring at me.  In her left hand, she clutched her gloves. In her right, she firmly grasped her riding crop. 

 

            "At that moment, I was suffering so from the shock of discovery that I briefly saw two images standing before me.  One, the infuriated acting head of household, poised only a few feet from my naked body; the other, Alexa the goddess of passion, fresh out of my fantasy.  The images blurred into one another, and I likely had a most confused look upon my face.  Though, it wasn't my face that got me into this bit of a fix."

 

            Farrington halted momentarily to allow the effect to settle on me.  It settled, God knows, and I swallowed extra hard before he continued.

 

            "'Rinse yourself and come out of that shower immediately, young man,' Alexa ordered.  'And get rid of that disgusting thing,' she said, motioning toward the uprisen source of my embarrassment.

 

            "I managed to get the soap off my body and wrap a Turkish towel around my waist.  Quivering with fear, I walked back into the bedroom.  Alexa was slowly pacing the floor.  Her every stride exuded determination.  'Lie down,' she commanded, pointing to the bed.  'And you shan't need that towel,' she said, snapping it away from my loins, again exposing my embarrassment.

 

            "She subsequently proceeded to deliver a lecture on the loathsomeness of my misbehavior, emphasizing that such  wrongdoing was abhorrent and couldn't be tolerated among the well-bred.

 

            "Then, while carefully measuring each word, she informed me that as acting head of household it was her duty to administer required discipline when necessary.        

 

            "As she spoke, I noticed her cheeks take on added color and her breathing become more rapid.  Otherwise, her composure betrayed absolutely no sign of emotion.

 

            "Here was I, meanwhile, a post-pubescent 18-year-old, awaiting chastisement from a contemporary.  I must confess, however, that Alexa's poise and bearing far outdistanced her actual years.

 

            "I lay face down on the bed, sinking into the valleys of the duvet, with my head turned sideways and my eyes riveted to her.  Although, I knew the fate that was to be mine, I felt totally powerless to either flee or resist. My will seemed to be momentarily lost.  Meanwhile, all of me remained fixed upon the statuesque young horsewoman. 

 

            "Long-legged, she stood tall and imposing in her tight-fitting breeches and polished leather riding boots. 

 

            "At the same moment, I was moved by how fastidious she still appeared in her starched, long-sleeved white shirt and burgundy tie.  A brown woven leather belt accentuated her trim waist.

 

            "Every strand of her lovely braided hair lay in its proper place on her head, no doubt each one fearful, lest any move incur its owner's wrath.  Her long eyelashes shielded her limpid green eyes. 

 

            "After a moment's pause, she looked down her elegant    aquiline nose at me.  I tried to speak, but couldn't. 

 

            "Wearing an expression of detachment on her pale face, she coolly informed me that as a young man of my position, I was obliged to accept her punishment. 

 

            "Then, in a businesslike manner, she pulled on her tight-fitting doeskin gloves while tucking her crop under her arm.  Once prepared, she raised her heavy riding whip.           

 

            "After flexing it several times, she thwacked its looped keeper against the flat of her gloved hand, as if to measure the instrument's effectiveness.  As she did so, I could see that the braided leather crop was quite thick, though pliable in the hands of its user.        

 

            "Apparently satisfied, Alexa proceeded with my humiliation, laying on strokes which delivered scorching hellfire to my backside.  I was in agony, and yet in my consciousness I was aware that each stroke was masterfully applied.  At no time during the punishment did I cry out, whimper or plead for leniency. 

 

            "Later, when I examined myself in the mirror, I saw the near-perfect lattice work of red and blue weals on my chastisted bottom, which Alexa had left as her signature.

 

            "The flogging lasted perhaps five minutes.  Afterward, the only words she spoke were, 'You may get dressed now.' 

 

            "Then, with her whip permitted to dangle casually from a wrist loop around her right hand, she strolled out of the room, perfectly relaxed, as though nothing out of the ordinary had arisen."

 

            The awe in Farrington's voice was unmistakable.

 

            "At first, I was totally devastated by the humiliation of the punishment," he recalled.  "Then, there was the throbbing pain all across my loins and buttocks -- added to that my churning inner emotions. 

 

            "Astoundingly, at that moment, I again found myself in a heightened state of arousal -- one even more passionate and intense than existed earlier.  I had been caught...interrupted in the act and summarily disciplined. Now, I could only envision Alexa and recall the events of the last few hours -- over and over again.  And in every delicious and lustful detail."

 

            "When did you next see her?" I asked, unable to hold my curiosity.

 

            Farrington smiled.  "Patience is a virtue you must learn to cultivate, my boy."

 

            He continued, "I next set eyes upon her a few hours later at dinner.  I felt I had no choice but to appear in the dining room at my place at the table.  The mere act of sitting down in a chair was a challenge, much less having to face Alexa. 

 

            "She presided, as usual, at the head of the table in Uncle Malcolm's place.  We all said our 'good evenings,' and I prayed, as only the young can, that my inner thoughts could not be discerned by anyone at table.

 

            "During the dinner, we made polite conversation, though I participated with great reluctance.  I knew that my bottom was red and suspected that my face perhaps was even more so.  I dared not look directly into Alexa's eyes.  I only stole glances at her when she addressed Nigel who sat directly opposite me. 

 

            "It was difficult to believe that this well-bred young lady, observing all the social niceties and spreading mint jelly on a dainty bite of lamb, was the same individual who hours earlier had invaded my privacy, stripped me down to a naked state, observed my shame, then administered as severe a whipping as I had ever received.

 

            "When the meal was ended, I made a feeble excuse to avoid joining the others for an evening of backgammon and returned to my room.  I again lay on the bed, my state of agitation heightened.  Although my buttocks still smarted from the painful horsewhipping, my loins ached with desire for Alexa, who had punished me so unforgivingly.

 

            "I felt I couldn't risk attempting self-relief in my room, since I might be discovered.  So, I returned downstairs, casually mentioning to Mrs. Collings that I was going out for some fresh air.  I then proceeded to wander the grounds in the darkness.

 

            "During my walk, the entire focus of my concentration was upon my uncle's singular niece.  The thought of her drove me almost mad. 

 

            "At the same time, I frantically sought relief from the pent up thrust of passion within me.  I soon came upon the greenhouse, let myself in and felt my lungs fill with the air made fragrant by orchids and frangipanis. The moonlight passing through the slanted glass windows permitted me to find my way through the cultivated jungle.  I moved along the aisles, my body rustling the thick foliage into murmurs of welcome as I searched for privacy.  The atmosphere was heavy with moisture and the lushness surrounding me fostered my animal instincts all the more.

 

            "Soon, I arrived in the banana grove and took shelter within it, hidden by giant scheffleras planted nearby. It was there that I could finally obtain relief by my own hand.  So urgent was my passion, it ended almost as soon as it began. 

 

            "However, only moments after I felt my drive ebb, it suddenly surged again, as my brain and body were electrified by memories of the handsome horsewoman astride her stallion.  Once again, my hand was my lover, enabling me to escape the torture of unfulfilled desire.  At least three more times I indulged myself.  When I was exhausted, I wiped myself on one of the large leaves of a plant close at hand.

 

            "I returned to the house, perhaps aware for the first time that the strange and wonderful events of the day had been indelibly imprinted upon my mind.  As it turned out, they would become a lifelong legacy.

 

            "That night, I had great difficulty falling asleep.  My bottom and my loins still throbbed from the severe punishment.  Blisters had begun to show themselves.  Even worse, my libido now seemed in overdrive.  I could only fantasize about Alexa and hunger for both her love and her punishment."

 

            "Was that craving ever satisfied?" I asked.

 

            Farrington shot me a look of disapproval.  My first mistake.  Ask no direct questions, I thought.  Just let him tell his story.

 

            "Young man, I repeat, you must learn the virtue of patience," Farrington admonished.  "One mustn't hurry the telling of a story.

 

            "The days and weeks passed quickly.  Each moment, I longed to be in Alexa's presence.  At first, the evening dinner was my only opportunity.  However, being seated in such proximity to her only deepened my heart's starvation.  I was determined to find another way to be near her.

 

            "I soon contrived a plan which called for me to venture past the stables during mid-morning, when I knew she would be working her stallion in the ring.  I did so, intending to use the pretext of my growing interest in horses.  As I waited for her, I watched her ride. 

 

            "When she had finished her training and dismounted, I put forward my offer to help her around the stable in whatever way I might be useful and placed myself at her disposal.  She readily accepted my offer.  Thereafter, she would oblige me by assigning such duties as cleaning her saddle and stirrup leathers or mucking stalls. Eventually, she taught me brushing and grooming."

 

            "Did that lead to anything?" I asked.

 

            "Yes, but not exactly what I had hoped for," replied Farrington. 

 

            He continued, "The embarrassing incident in the shower was never mentioned.  Meanwhile, Alexa approached her relationship with me very much like that of a teacher toward her pupil.  Though she seemed engaging and outwardly friendly, she remained aloof.  To my great disappointment, there was not as much as a hint on her part of any romantic interest.

 

            "It was terribly frustrating.  There were times when I hungered so for her touch in an intimate way that I recklessly considered repeating my misbehavior to provoke her into disciplining me again.  But, I decided against it.

 

            "One day, after watching her take her stallion through his daily routine in the ring, I was busy cleaning her saddle, when I heard Alexa call to me.  Watching her ride earlier that morning had been a very emotional experience for me, and at that particular moment I remained greatly aroused.  During the morning workout, she had held extraordinarily high expectations of her mount, and when he failed to perform to her rigid standards, she smartly took him up, then punished him severely until her arm tired.  After witnessing this event, I tried desperately to control my passions, though my memory of it seemed to overpower the rational being inside me. You see, I wanted Alexa's attention -- in any form -- all for myself.

 

            "However, when I heard Alexa call, I immediately dropped the task at hand and hurried to her.  She stood in the stable tack room, resplendent in her riding clothes while looking at herself in an old mirror which hung on the wall.  She held a comb and brush in her hand.  Her long hair had been released from the confinement of its braided and tightly pinned-up style and now cascaded naturally, in splendor, over her shoulders.  I had not seen her this way before, except within my active imagination, and I envied those broad shoulders the weight of every strand of her hair.

 

            "I stood there, almost in reverence, prepared to pledge her my fealty forevermore, should she only ask.  But instead, she handed her brush to me.  It had natural bristles set into a silver backing whereon her initials were sensuously mingled, much as she and I were entwined in my dreams.  She directed me to brush out her hair.  She explained that a couple of hairpins had slipped out while she was cantering her mount and her braids had fallen loose.

 

            "My hands trembled as I held the brush.  As best I could, I drew the brush through the magnificent chestnut tresses which I had longed, but yet not dared, to touch.  My passions soared out of control.  I feared that any moment my secret might be exposed by telltale signs on my trousers.  I prayed to be spared such embarrassment.

 

            "Patiently, she instructed me on precisely how she wished for me to tend her.  'Brett, you must first grasp my hair mid-length and brush from there down.  Then, move up and repeat the process.  That will separate the tangles and bring me no discomfort.'  Her back was toward me, but she could observe my image in the mirror which she faced.  Likewise, standing behind her, I could admire her superior facial features -- combining both beauty and strength -- in the same mirror. 

 

            "Dedicated to my task, I followed her instructions to the letter and brushed and brushed.  As I did so, I noticed how each silken strand gleamed and shimmered as radiantly as she out of whose head they grew.   

 

            "After a few minutes, Alexa turned from the mirror to face me.  She gently took the brush from my hand and informed me she would herself complete the final steps of braiding and pinning.  She thanked me and I was dismissed.

 

            "I returned to my room only long enough to pick up a knapsack, then hurried out to seek a place of refuge and relief.  I realized, of course, that I could not use the greenhouse in broad daylight.

 

            "While hiking through the adjacent woods, I came upon a glade quite overgrown with grape ivy, where I felt I would not be observed.  It was perfect for my needs. 

 

            "I relieved my pulsating urge, immediately exploding in homage to Alexa.  But, moments afterward, I found myself struggling in my mind to guess what motivation lay behind her pattern.  Was she really unaware of my worship for her?  Was she teasing me? 

 

            "Did you ever find out?" I asked.  This time, Farrington only grimaced slightly.  Perhaps, he was becoming accustomed to my style of interviewing.

 

            "No," he replied.  "It drove me wild.  I felt helpless to act.  Meanwhile, I could only dwell upon images of the tall disciplinarian in riding attire.  Thoughts of her consumed my every moment.

 

            "You see, I was a relatively naive lad," he explained.  "Had I known then what I knew a few years later, I would have been much more bold.  But, I didn't know anything about women.  I didn't yet possess a man's knowledge and experience. 

 

            "I kept asking myself, 'Did Alexa find some peculiar satisfaction or excitement in teasing me?  Or was she herself somehow inhibited from expressing any romantic interest?'  It was terrible.  I had no one from whom I could seek advice.

 

            "A difficult situation," I ventured, attempting to appear less direct.

 

            "Quite," Farrington agreed.  "There were only a few weeks of holiday remaining.  I felt surely she must have noticed from my eyes, my facial expression, the way I looked at her in the riding ring or at the dinner table that I was smitten beyond salvation.  But, she kept her aloofness and there never arrived an opportunity for me to express my feelings...my overwhelming admiration for her."

 

            "Were there goodbyes?" I asked.

 

            "Indeed," Farrington replied.  "My parents came to collect me on their return from Africa.  Aunt Lydia and Uncle Malcolm had not yet returned home. 

 

            "It all was rather formal.  I introduced Nigel and Alexa to my parents.  Then, I addressed Alexa, telling her how much I enjoyed her company.  I expressed my thanks for her instruction in the care and grooming of horses. Finally, I bowed humbly to her as I told her goodbye.  I noticed a trace of a smile form on her lips as I did so.  Was she perhaps smiling in satisfaction?  It remained a mystery.

 

            "Alexa, in turn, bade me goodbye in a manner which can best be described as correct and proper.  There was absolutely no sign of warmth or emotion in her voice.  I was deeply disappointed, but I didn't let my feelings show.  Nigel and I shook hands, and it was over.  My parents drove me home.  My summer holiday had ended. And, yet, it's never ended."  

 

            "Did you ever see her again?" I asked.

 

            "Many years later," Farrington replied.  "But, that would be taking us ahead of the story.

 

            "Meanwhile, I was sent off to school.  Then the war came.  I enlisted in the army when I was eighteen.  My parents objected, but I fancied myself a patriot and was in a uniform in a matter of weeks.  First came Dunkirk -- that was a fiasco.  Later, North Africa under Montgomery.  Finally, Normandy.  I received a field commission and departed with a captain's rank when the war ended.  The war years matured all of us young chaps rather quickly."

 

            "Did you think about Alexa often?" I asked.

 

            "Constantly," answered Farrington.  "Just the thought of her  was enough to deliver me into another world -- a sanctuary where I dwelled on passionate memories combined with my own fantasies.  It kept my mind occupied when I lay in a muddy foxhole for days.

 

            "When I returned home, one of the first things I did was contact Uncle Malcolm and Aunt Lydia.  I telephoned saying I was home from the war and was eager to visit them.  They were glad to see me and relieved that I had returned in one piece.  Many of the lads, you know, came back missing an arm, a leg...it was a terrible, terrible war.  But, that is war, isn't it?"

 

            Farrington summoned the server, requesting that his tab be transferred to the dining room since we would be going in to dine, shortly.  He glanced in my direction, seeking my approval, which he received in the form of a nod of my head.

 

            "You had gone to visit your aunt and uncle after the war," I prompted.

 

            "Ah, yes," Farrington said, returning to his narrative.  "They asked me about my combat experiences, and we talked about the war for quite a while.  Then, I discreetly inquired about Nigel and Alexa.  Almost apologetically, Uncle Malcolm explained that his nephew had been too young to enter the war and only recently had begun his studies at Cambridge.  He said Alexa had taken a degree in English literature and was hired to fill a teaching position in Leeds.  She had been introduced to an eligible gentleman, a chartered accountant, and they were married a few years ago.  There was no mention of any children.

 

            "I was dispirited, to say the least.  But, I was careful not to let my disappointment show. 

 

            "Following that visit, I resisted attempts by my parents to help me enroll in university.  I had no interest in a profession or anything else, for that matter.  I was restless.  I knew that I needed something new.  The farther away, the better.  Turn a new leaf and all that, you know. 

 

            "An army comrade had no trouble inducing me to join him in taking a job with an Australian mining venture.  The pay was excellent and filled with opportunity.  I learned the business in a snap.  Advancing in the corporate structure was no problem at all.  My positions required travel to other distant locations to open new explorations -- Africa, New Guinea, Malaysia, Chile, Bolivia.  It got me away, and that's what I needed. 

 

            "After a few years, I became a partner in the firm.  Both the company and I prospered.  In the early 1960s, we were acquired by an international conglomerate.  By that time, I held a substantial share in the company, so I ended up with a packet.  I wasn't yet forty years old and had most of my life in front of me.  I was too young to retire."

 

            "So what did you do?" I asked.

 

            "Well, I never could dislodge from my mind the memory of that summer's experience.  No matter how busy I was with my travels or responsibilities, my internal world still revolved around the handsome young horsewoman whose hair I brushed every night in my dreams. 

 

            "Of course, I now had economic freedom.  But, what would I do with it?  I invested heavily in blue chip income property, mostly office complexes and commercial buildings, in San Francisco, Boston and Dallas.  I've never had much confidence in securities.  You know, the stock market, bonds and other such. 

 

            "Then, one day I turned over responsibility for the properties to a management firm.  I wanted to escape the humdrum of daily routine and seek adventure. 

 

            "Since most of my investments were here and I liked America, I decided to explore the States. 

 

            "I was especially keen to learn once and for all whether there existed other women who possessed some of the traits and characteristics I witnessed in Alexa.

 

            "You see, I was so heavily occupied with work during those post-war years that I had been too busy for the opposite sex."

 

            "So, you thought that maybe you could repeat the experience somehow?" I asked.  "Or perhaps something along those lines?"

 

            "Yes, 'something along those lines' is a perfect way to phrase it," said Farrington.  "You are good with words.  As I knew you would be."

 

            He continued, "As it turned out, and quite to my surprise, I encountered more than just a few of these women who seek the upper hand. 

 

            "I also learned that I'm not alone in this world as concerns my sexual preferences.  During my travels, I determined from personal conversations as well as second-hand accounts that a sizeable percentage of American men share my penchant.  It's simply not often talked about.  You know, taboo.       

 

            "Anyway, my explorations took me through almost every state as well as an occasional trip abroad.  My Odyssey required several years to complete."

 

            "You must have some fascinating stories to tell." I said.

 

            "Precisely," Farrington answered.  "And I will be sharing these with you -- all in due course.  It will take a few months to complete the telling of these stories. 

 

            "Meanwhile, I've rented an apartment for you on Riverside Drive.  It's fully furnished, of course.  I've taken a year's lease on it. 

 

            "We can work there if that's convenient for you.  Mornings are best for me.  We can meet every other day or so, and on alternate days you can transcribe your notes or whatever it is that writers do."

 

            He looked at me pointblank.  "Will that be satisfactory?"

 

            "Uh, sure.  I mean yes," I answered.  Stunned, I hesitated whether I should ask for a package figure.  Before I could decide, however, Farrington dealt with the sticky issue as if it were Teflon-coated.

 

            "As far as compensation is concerned, I believe you can deduce that this manuscript is very important to me," Farrington said.  "How would $50,000 seem to you?  If it's satisfactory, I'll have a contract for you to sign at our next meeting along with an advance payment check.  After that, progress payments along the way."

 

            "That's fine," I gulped.  It was far more than I had expected for such a job.  And, he was throwing in an apartment, rent free.

 

            Farrington removed a business card from a small, silver-trimmed alligator case.  The card was engraved with his name only.  He took out a Mont Blanc fountain pen and wrote the address of the Riverside Driveapartment on the card, then handed it to me along with a key.

 

            "Would Thursday morning at ten be a suitable time to begin work?" Farrington asked.

 

            "No problem," I answered, eager to get started.  In truth, my enthusiasm was as much the product of what I anticipated hearing as it was the fee he was going to pay me.  The old gent had certainly been around, and judging from what I had already heard, this was to be something I wouldn't want to miss. 

 

            I knew the interview was over, but I couldn't stop myself from posing one more question.

 

            "Mr. Farrington, I hope you don't mind my asking," I persisted, "but when did you see Alexa again?"

 

            Farrington smiled.  I surmised that he probably knew that Alexa was now on my mind, too.  He rolled his chair back from the cocktail table.  We both stood up. 

 

            "You'll have to be satisfied when I tell you that all loose ends will be neatly tied up before we conclude our work," he assured me.

 

            "Come my boy," he said, patting me on the shoulder as he steered me into The Adirondack's dining room. "Let's see what Chef Jean Claude has to offer as his delectable specialty tonight.  Perhaps, a rack of lamb or something that calls for a good, robust Burgundy.  Or maybe, a Pomerol?  You do like wine, I trust?"