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)