SHARON'S YEAR

Ch. 1

The cold March air bites cruelly, stinging like a lash on my freshly shaved labia. These NY City winters are a bitch, especially when forbidden panties. Beneath my knee-high tweed skirt I'm stark naked "down there." It's his absolute rule, the dreaded “triple P”: no panties, no pubes when in public. No exceptions.

Headed downstairs to the No. 6 subway, an incoming train sends a frigid blast whistling up my legs. Stepping sideways down the stairs, I keep my thighs squeezed tightly as my 4 inch heels allow, which sadly isn't much. Short strides, one step at a time. One foot down and then the other, gingerly as an elderly woman with a bad hip. Not just the prying cold but my modesty at stake: commuters headed upstairs from below could, from a certain angle, catch a furtive glimpse of my womanhood. A risk I endure but can never embrace-the "inadvertent" threat of exhibitionism. Constantly. What I'd give to get back to normal: flat shoes, conservative pantsuit, and most of all some warm cotton panties. Just a day-one single day- where I didn't have to struggle with the “secret” between my legs. Even a whisper of pubic hair, a single strand- just something less than bare down there. Less exposed. Less degraded. To feel like a free woman again, if only for a moment. Of not having to worry every time I dropped keys or cell phone, bending over with bare ass exposed. Or sitting on a barstool and forgetting-sometimes too late-to cross my spread legs. You take your panties for granted, until they're taken away.

I'd been shaved earlier that morning, his double-edged Gillette gliding clinically over my lathered vulva. No fancy creams or feminine lotions, just a coarse badger shave brush and a drugstore can of Barbasol. As usual I was bound nude, splayed across the vintage barber chair he'd installed in the spare bedroom. With practiced indifference he whisked away my stubble, one eye on CNBC's “Morning Call” and the other on my crotch. His thumb pressed firm on my asshole, a pivot for his fingers to tug apart my lips. Though humiliating, the shave itself wasn't unpleasant. It's been weeks since he'd so much as nicked me. But being a born sadist, one final, inevitable cruelty soon draws his rapt attention- five post-shave blasts of witch hazel fired from a spray bottle, right on my “you know what.” God it burns terribly. Whatever's in that vile concoction, I can tell you it shouldn't come a mile from a woman's privates. A blowtorch would be merciful compared to that shit. My “morning witching,” he calls it. The bastard.

It was thankfully over quickly. For today, at least. On more leisurely mornings (or those where he's nicked me with the razor) he'll sometimes soak a washcloth in the stuff and press it painfully into my crotch, leaving the stinging astringent to fester as he readies himself for work. Or, if in a particularly cruel mood, take the razor strop and deliver, without warning, one full-strength stroke right across my bare sex. Sometimes two. Nothing I can do, being bound defenseless. You can see why I dread mornings.

But shaving is the least of my tortures. Or; rather, his tortures. Him? Mr. Dennis Steel, Esq. Partner at Baron, Rothschild & Whitney LLP. You've probably seen him interviewed on the cable news circuit. Age 54, graying at the temples, he embodies “urbane law-firm partner:” Hickey-Freeman suits, Cartier cufflinks, voice like a tumbler of scotch: the “old money” look. Six-foot two barefoot. Shirtless his chest muscles ripple like a low tide, betraying the athlete he once was. No middle-aged paunch to his stomach, in fact his diet is rather ascetic considering his wealth: cornflakes & an orange for breakfast, an apple for lunch, and for dinner a small filet with rice- that's about it. Routines define the man.

I'd been working as his secretary for about 3 years when he caught me. I'd been doing some “personal bookkeeping” for him- kickbacks and such that certain CEOs were funneling him outside the partnership for political favors. Strictly “off the books" stuff. In big firms it's not the law per se so much as the connections, and Steel had them in spades. His father was a former Congressman, and his maternal uncle was a recently deceased US Senator. He had connections in the highest of places and could subtly influence the outcome of big cases: M&A's, Sarb-Ox compliance, shareholder derivatives suits-with little more than a phone call.

These "private accounts" were handled by me alone, and I'd foolishly started “borrowing” now and then. After all it was dirty money, and given the funds were illicit I figured he'd never say anything for fear I'd "out" his scam to the other partners. I grew bolder with time, and soon a brief but intense addiction to cocaine had me "skimming" more and more. Off the books and up my nose. The fear of getting caught only increased my tension- a vicious cycle that led to more drugs to "calm my nerves." I just turned 24 at the time, and suppose I was still immature. Trying to fit in in the "big city," I had no problems attracting men. At 5'5 and 115 pounds, shoulder-length auburn hair and designer clothes (bought with Steel's money), I dated quite a few nice guys.

Then one day it all ended.

"Can you step in here a moment, Sharon," Mr. Steel said that December afternoon, somewhat surprising me as he walked up from behind. Quickly I closed the Facebook window open on my screen, switiching back to the brief I'd been assigned to cite-check.

We entered not his office but a small, rarely-used conference room on the paralegal floor. In the past some first-year associates had used the room for occasional depositions and such, but of late it was more of a storage area. Boxes of settled files and moot case documents sat fornlornly awaiting the shredder. I didn't know it then, but so did a year of my life.

I'd reaaly rather not go into the details. He had me dead to rights. The crime was "breach of trust," and it carried a 20 year sentence. .. (to be continued)