The Doms Diary: 4:59

Wow!  What a way to introduce a story.  I'm still fanning myself here, but you didn't come here to listen to me jabber on, you came her to read Abyrne's latest addition didn't you? Well, let's jump in shall we?

The Dom's Diary

4:59

 by 

Abyrne Mostyn

Read part 1 here

4:59…such an inconsequential mark of time.  Who would have guessed that it would have made such a significant mark on my day?  I had overslept.  Too caught up in dreams of what could be, I’d missed the alarm and overslept.  Even now, I could feel the last strands of her hair pulling free from my grip, dragging across my fingertips.  Knowing I was late, I couldn’t help but close my fist to hold the last visceral strands that didn’t exist.

            She’d been exquisite with lush curves and soft skin; flexible but not wiry thin - just the way I liked them.  I’d dreamt she was real, not some plastic surgeon’s silicone jigsaw puzzle.  I hoped that I was right.  Her cries and moans had lingered, bounding through my synapses, leaving my body straining beyond the normal morning stand up, look at me now flagstaff.

            Rushing to the shower was complicated in my situation, but remedied easily with her in my minds’ eye and some body wash.  Unfortunately, rushing was not my style and as such, foreign rhythm means mistakes.  Soap of any kind was for external cleaning only.  A lesson re-learned unwittingly.

            Thirty-five minutes later, coffee in hand, I was dressed and out the door.  There were nine minutes to travel two blocks, hit the newsstand for the paper and reach the El stand for the Red Line to catch the 5:45 downtown and arrive on time before the New York exchange opening bell.  Shaving would have to wait.  Thankfully, last night’s shadow wasn’t too unruly yet and I had no face to face appointments scheduled for the day.

            The market was still down and trading was slow.  Even my die hard, stand by, go to clients were skittish in this economy.  I’d spent lunch at my desk, eating between phone calls hoping for an upturn.  It would not come.  I spared a thought for her only over long sips of hot coffee.  Even in my mind, revisiting her whimpering on my cross would derail the stay I’d managed to eek out in today’s trading.

            I’d managed to shut her out of my thoughts for the day actually, but remembered her vividly as I looked up and realized the clock stood at 4:59.  Ironically the same time I’d woken late twelve hours earlier still dreaming of her.  There was a long pregnant pause as I watched the second hand tick the last thirty seconds toward vertical and wondered if she would be punctual.  Waiting for the bell on the final day of any year of schooling hadn’t held my attention as closely.  Promptness was a commodity, and timing was everything in my world.

            I hadn’t consciously held my breath.  I hadn’t noticed my pulse kick up either as the sweep arm neared closer to the twelve, nor had I shifted my phone and spun it around to face me by wrote plan.  I just had.  The stutter-step of the long hand clicked into place and the sweep continued its trek around the clock face without so much as a blink that I had been waiting.

            Half a second later, I had released my breath, run my palms against my trouser leg and set to resume business as usual til the west coast markets closed.  I had been immensely hopeful for strict punctuality – hopeful, but disappointed in the end.  Her face last night outside the club had left me believing there was a kindred soul who had the same values, or at least was seeking the same thing.  Believing that there was someone who said 5:00 and meant it; someone rare, but valuable.

            Scrolling to a new list of clients for the market in play, it was a third tone before I recognized my phone was ringing and voice mail hadn’t picked it up yet.  I checked the clock, picked up the phone, hitting the green ‘send’ to engage the call, noting absently there were still ten seconds to 5:01. 

Unknown caller.

“Hello?”

A very composed male voice responded, catching me by surprise.

“Hawthorne DuFoe?”

I knew I had entered my number into her phone as Thorne, so this was obviously unrelated and I deflated a bit.

“Speaking.  Who’s calling?

“The name is Maxim.  I believe you are expecting my call.”