The Graduate
(A Slave to Love - Book 1)
by
Rebecca Milton
***
~~~
Copyright © 2014 - Rebecca Milton. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and locations portrayed in this book and the names herein are fictitious. Any similarity to or identification with the locations, names, characters or history of any person, product or entity is entirely coincidental and unintentional. - From a Declaration of Principles jointly adopted by a Committee of the American Bar Association and a Committee of Publishers and Associations. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. No responsibility or liability is assumed by the Publisher for any injury, damage or financial loss sustained to persons or property from the use of this information, personal or otherwise, either directly or indirectly. While every effort has been made to ensure reliability and accuracy of the information within, all liability, negligence or otherwise, from any use, misuse or abuse of the operation of any methods, strategies, instructions or ideas contained in the material herein, is the sole responsibility of the reader. Any copyrights not held by publisher are owned by their respective authors. All information is generalized, presented for informational purposes only and presented "as is" without warranty or guarantee of any kind. All trademarks and brands referred to in this book are for illustrative purposes only, are the property of their respective owners and not affiliated with this publication in any way. Any trademarks are being used without permission, and the publication of the trademark is not authorized by, associated with or sponsored by the trademark owner.
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The Graduate
It will go like this...
“All rise.”
“Be seated.”
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you will now hear closing arguments from the defense. I caution you to listen carefully, take notes if you wish. There will be time for questions after the defense has finished.”
“Thank you, your honor. Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. It has been a long trial. A detailed trial. This morning, I am going to do my very best to recap, concisely what has happened, what is most important and then, I am confident, you will find in favor of my clients. At least that’s my hope, because it’s how I pay the rent.”
General giggles. The tension of a long trial coming to an end.
“All right, ladies and gentlemen, I invite you to relax, be comfortable as I walk us through this again. You see, it all started at a table, during happy hour, where four dear, close friends—who were seeking only to be happy, to answer some questions that had troubled them—met to have drink. Now, this isn’t an action in which only women will engage. I encourage you gentlemen here, to recall having times like this. I know you have. I know very well that we woman are not an open book and there are times when you need the company of your guy friends to try to figure us out. And, by the way, if you do, please contact my husband, I am sure he would appreciate all the help you can give him.”
General grunts of laughter and agreement from all in the jury box.
“Yes, good. Now I ask you to think of those times when you’re with your best friends. When you have a few drinks. When those great ideas spring forth from need, desire, anger, aggravation. So, please understand that this is a universal situation. Now, it all started with a question...”
***
Where are all the good men hiding, where have they all gone away to? Our mothers had good men. Our fathers were men of good stock, so, where are they now? Where have all the good men gone?
This could be a sign on the wall over the door of any establishment that Karen and her friends went to. Like the signs that read, cead mile failte—a thousand welcomes—behind the bar in every Irish pub in the country. It could be over the door in the coffee shop on the corner of 9th Street and 9th Avenue where they met on Saturday mornings before they went to the farmer’s market. It could be on the wall over the door at Lumpy’s on State and A streets where they met on Friday nights. It could be on the wall over the door on any number of restaurants, cafes, bookstores, anywhere Karen and her group of single women met to discuss work, life, who’s getting married, who’ s getting divorced and, most of all...
“Where the bloody hell are all the good men?” Amy said throwing her purse onto a chair, waving for the waiter and plunking herself down at the table.
“Bad date,” Karen asked, knowing the answer by the entrance but still, it was protocol to ask.
“Bad somehow just doesn’t cover it,” Amy said as the waiter, a fine looking man in his mid-twenties, close-cropped, dark hair, stepped to the table. He asked what he could get the ladies. “I would like a mug—literally a mug,” Amy said, pantomiming the size of the mug for him, “and I would like this mug filled with a vodka martini, very dry, very dirty, please. Thank you.” He looked at her for a moment and contemplated telling her that it was not possible to make such a mug of martinis then, he looked around the table for help. He caught Karen’s eye.
“What is your name, handsome,” Karen said and he replied that his name was Darren. “Darren, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that you cannot give my dear friend, Amy, a mug sized martini.” He nodded. “The thing is, Darren, you can. You see, the customer is always right and, the female customer who has had a really, really bad date and so needs a mug of martini to quell her desire to stab every man she sees in the heart with a broken pencil—including your fine looking self—is even more right. Do you follow?” He nodded. “Good, knew you were not just handsome, you were bright as well.” He smiled, liking the compliment and liking that it came from a woman as beautiful as Karen.
“Tell you what, Darren,” Karen continued, the rest of the girls watching her handle the situation, “why don’t you bring us all a mug of martini? Do that and maybe, the bartender will think it’s a trend and then you can add it to the menu. Now, don’t bother coming back and telling us the bartender won’t do it, you can get him to do it, I am sure you can. OK? Good.” With that, he thought for a second, turned and walked away from the table.
“Do you think he’ll do it,” Amy asked.
“Absolutely,” Karen said and then, she asked about Amy’s bad date.
The date story was usual. It was not new, it did not shed any insights onto the question of where the “good” men where. It did not introduce any new topics, it simply reinforced the same ones. The date was drinks and then dinner. The man was fine, good, handsome, cute, sweet, whatever adjective you want to use to describe the man at the beginning of the date. He did what the men that Amy and Karen and Sandra and Terry usually did: they listened but did not hear. They listened to respond, to say the right thing, to move the conversation forward.
At first, they fall for it, they believe he is listening and perhaps, even interested. Then, as the date progresses, they girls realize the man is just listening for something he can respond to, something that he can make a clever remark about or sound sympathetic about. Why? Why do men do this?
“And then, you know, I am at his place,” Amy was saying. The girls groaned and there was the answer to the question, why do men do this. “And so, we’re making out on the couch and, he is a really good kisser and then, I notice...”
What she no
tices is some variation of a picture of a man and his wife, the picture of a man and his kids. Some other woman’s underwear. Something that gives away the fact that the man has been lying about himself, his circumstances all evening and now, hoping that, because she is already there, already into the situation, she will still sleep with him.
“Please say you just got up and left,” Terry said just as Darren returned balancing a large tray with four mugs of martini on it. The girls applauded him and he was quite proud of himself.
“The martini mug,” Darren said, “to be added to our happy hour menu thanks to you ladies.” More praise for Darren and his good work all around, he took his bow and asked if anyone wanted to order food, but none of the ladies did.
“It interferes with the alcohol,” Sandra said and they all laughed. But, it was actually the truth.
So, they drank their round of martinis in mugs and, since they had nowhere to be, no hands on their time and since they enjoyed each others company, they ordered another round and stayed a little longer. They drank this second round, and because they were laughing and deeply appreciating the specific traits that they so loved and admired about each other, they smiled and laughed more. These traits they expounded upon with much slurring and hugging and assurances that they loved each other, seriously and because they loved each other and had known each other for so long and they felt best in the company of the others, they ordered a third round and slowly worked their way through that.
When that round was done and because they were feeling strong, united, open, real, joyful, they stayed at the table, ordered their fourth round, promised each other they would not drive. Keys were put on the table, wallets were checked for cab fare, and when all had been settled, and safety had been addressed, they set about drinking the fourth round. Laughter occurred, togetherness abounded and then, a silence happened. It was not a bad silence, it was a silence that occurs when people, friends, even close friends, gather and the conversation dips for a moment. There was no rush to end the silence. No rush to fill the silence. And yet...
“Damned men,” Amy shouted, shattering the silence and causing the other members of the party to jump and even to spill some of their mugs of martinis. Which was not good. “Freaking men,” Amy said again, this time quieter and with a deep, angry growl to her voice. The other ladies supported her with much here, here-ing and well said-ing and you go girl-ing. But, somehow, even the here, here-ing, you go girl-ing and such did not help Amy feel better and made the other ladies feel a little hollow as well. So, another silence sat at the table as the ladies sipped round four of their mugs of martinis.
It is said by some to be a historic moment. Some say it was just a coincidence but, either way Karen looked at her watch at precisely 8:27, the same instant that Amy said, low, serious, dangerous:
“Let’s just build the perfect man.” At that moment, at 8:27 in the evening, the plan, the plot, the idea to build the perfect man was set in motion.
“Yes,” Karen said, looking up from her watch, not hesitating an instant.
“Fine,” said Terri.
“Oh, absolutely,” said Sandra, and with that, they set to work.
So paper was pulled out, pens between fingers ruled by alcohol and giddiness flew across the pages. Charts were drawn, needs were addressed, foibles and faults to banish were enumerated. The fourth round of mug martinis slowly disappeared and, during that time, the ladies all started to feel they were soberer. Believe they were more focused. Strangely enough, as the alcohol wore off, the desire to pursue this project did not.
Step one was to find a man. Karen supplied this: there was a junior associate at her law firm who was very attractive, but he was becoming involved with some of the senior men and becoming too frat boy, too callous, too... Well, too much like a man. He was still young enough, they felt, still at a stage in his emotional development where he could be changed. He was still pliable. They would take this junior associate, named William, he would be their target.
“We can’t keep him at my house,” Karen said, “because when he is reported missing, they will most likely check anyone who he works with first.” This was true and very good thinking. The more they talked, the soberer they felt. The soberer they felt, the more focused they seemed to be.
“My place,” Sandra said. “I have a huge, finished basement that I never use. We can keep him there, train him there... Perfect him there.” They all agreed. Sandra’s finished basement would be their center of operations. Then they set about deciding on what the training curriculum would be, what exactly would make the perfect man.
It is easy to ask, where are the good men. It is easy to sit around a table with giant mugs of martinis and complain about men being this way, acting that way. It is easy to say what a good man should be, how he should act, because that’s all theoretical. Now, the ladies were moving into the realms of the practical. The hard line. The reality. They could no longer simply speculate and complain, they had to make some concrete decisions.
“Oh, ho, ho,” Karen said, waving for Darren and round number five, “I can see how this will go... I can see it very clearly...”
When they began the program, they decided each one of them would have time, each day, with William. They could teach him the things they, individually, thought a good man should be. Traits a good man should possess. This was agreed on as the perfect way to proceed and so, they did.
***
The following day, Karen went into work and asked William to go to lunch under the pretext of her having watched his work. She’d been with him when he was second chair at her latest trial and she wanted to give him some advice. He agreed, earnestly grateful for the attention and the help.
Karen suddenly felt a little nervous. Perhaps they were making a mistake. William seemed liked a fine young man, so maybe kidnapping him wasn’t the way to go. Maybe he didn’t deserve it. That feeling quickly vanished when she overheard William talking to two male, senior associates in the conference room. They had asked him to go to lunch and he told them about his lunch appointment with Karen. They immediately launched into sexual talk, telling William that perhaps she was going to “have him” for lunch. At first, she held out hope for him but then, he gave in to the peer pressure and started making sexual jokes as well. Karen quickly dropped her previous thoughts on the matter and steeled her resolve to take William and repair him. For the greater good of course.
At lunch, Karen and William sat at a table in the middle of the restaurant so that the other ladies, sitting in a booth to their immediate left, could get a good look at William. That evening, they met at a bar where Amy, a police detective, outlined the kidnapping plan. They would wait for William after work, Terri would approach him, chat him up, ask him if he wanted to get a drink. After the drink, he would walk her to her car. Sandra and Amy would be there and the three of them would put him in the car, chloroform him, take him to Sandra’s place and bring him to the basement and start the process.
It was surprising how easily they were able to carry it off. William went for a drink because Terri was attractive. He walked her to her car because he was polite. They had a little trouble with the chloroform because none of them had used it before. Terri ended up knocking herself out, and they had to dose William twice on the car ride, but they got him to Sandra’s place unharmed. Down in the basement, they tied him to a chair and used duct tape to secure large mittens to his hands so that he could not use the phone, or untie his ropes. Also, they liked the way he looked in mittens.
When he woke, they fed him, gave him water and told him their plan. He, of course, struggled, because no one likes being held against their will. After William realized the ladies were not going to hurt him, he actually settled in.
***
“That’s important to the story, ladies and gentleman of the jury. You heard William himself testify. You saw him sit here on the stand and say that, after the initial shock. After waking from the chloroform induced sleep and being shock
ed, he knew the ladies were no going to injure him. He felt safe. He felt cared for. They fed him, gave him plenty to drink. They worked out a system where he was able to bathe and sleep. He was, in essence, a guest in the finished basement of Sandra’s house. He was not tortured. He was not beaten. He was...”
***
“Coming along nicely,” Amy said one afternoon at lunch. They had been instructing William for a total of six weeks now and they were all pleased with the results. “He is calm. He isn’t complaining about missing football. He’s reading more...” Amy was listing his progress report and the other ladies nodded along, making notes, adding their impressions as well. “Any suspicions around the office?” she asked Karen.
“None,” she replied. “He was a junior associate, he was good, but he got poached, simple as that.”
“Who poached him,” Terri asked.
“Out of town firm,” Karen said, “small. Really, there is no reason to worry. Junior associates, on William’s level, come and go in their first year. The firm plans for it. He was replaced in three days. We’re fine.”
The ladies agreed and continued with their plan. William was indeed progressing according to their liking. He was now listening, truly listening to them when they talked to him. When they had their individual sessions with him, he had begun to ask questions about them. He listened to their answers. He offered interesting, heartfelt advice. He had stopped asking them, when they were angry, if it was their time of the month. He had become more gentle. He had begun to understand how sexist jokes were hurtful and, truly, they weren’t funny. He had realized that complimenting a woman’s had a nice rack, or hot ass, was not really the kind of compliment she wanted to hear. He was growing. He was changing. He was becoming the man that they all had dreamed of. They were very pleased with their plan.
“All right,” Terri said, “I think it’s time we move forward. Time for the next phase.” The other ladies looked at her and waited for her to expound on what the next step was. She looked at them, shocked that they were not on the same page as her.