10. Willow

At seven a.m. sharp, my feet slip into the straps. To anyone else, I am just a woman sweating on an exercise bike in the gym. But in my head, I am escaping, trying not to think about the future. Focusing on the present moment. With each push of the pedals, I can feel my muscles working hard, urging me to peddle faster. Beads of sweat glisten on my forehead as I push myself to my limits. Watching me, you can tell I am not one to give up easily, but right now I feel the waves of uncertainty washing over me.

I’m not worrying about Lola. Lola is the single best thing that happened to me for as long as I can remember.

The dread comes from the upcoming benefit ball tomorrow night. I don’t want to go and I would normally not go. But this is the one event that has an actual impact on my career. My boss’s boss will be there. And if I know my mother and father, I will be placed right next to this man from the appetizers all the way through to dessert.

I can usually stomach one or two of the fancy events a year, which I have been bred for and trained up for since birth, but my patience has been starting to wear thin in recent years and now things feel different.

Lola just isn’t the kind of person that would be accepted or taken seriously in any way, shape, or form as my partner at an event like this--nor in my life in general.

The list of reasons why start with her being female, but that is not by far the most problematic thing about Lola.

There is also the fact that she doesn’t come from money. She lives on the wrong side of town. And she takes off her clothes for a living.

Hell, I don’t even know Lola’s last name. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t use one. She is just Lola.

Sure, in polite society, there are eccentrics whom everyone enjoys as entertainment. But they are usually very wealthy women with a penchant for the peculiar. They aren’t strippers who come from nothing.

I know I could go to this event by myself and just tell Lola it was a work thing, which would be very honest, and that would be the end of it. She wouldn’t question me.

Except . . . that isn’t entirely true either.

There are things I hide from Lola.

Lola is a smart woman. I know she intuits that there are vast differences between our lives.

But there are more things I keep from her.

Someone like Lola lives for the moment will never understand why I hide not only my sexuality from the world (which, although once murky, is now suddenly very clear to me: I am a lesbian and I have made peace with that on a personal level) but I also hide who I am from Lola. And I know I will hide her from my family.

Well, I haven’t hidden my last name, but Lola doesn’t follow politics, either. I’m fairly confident that she hasn’t made the connection.

My father aspires to run for president next year. He needs his only daughter to keep being the model senator’s daughter she always has been.

A senator’s daughter who behaves herself and keeps her head down. Someone as low profile as it comes.

A senator’s daughter who comes out as a lesbian dating a stripper--well, that would be a scandal I’m just not ready for.

Both my and Lola’s lives would be dragged into the spotlight.

When I think about what I am keeping from Lola and the fact I don’t think I will ever feel okay being open about her, the guilt bubbles up inside me. It feels like I’m choking from within.

How can I ever give Lola what she deserves? How can I offer her a future when she has no clue who I really am? When she does, Lola will know that the chances we have, the actual reality of us being more than this, is pretty much zero.

Lola is my dirty secret. How can I ever tell anyone about us?

This is all my brain speaking. The analyst within me, looking at the situation with logic and the pragmatic viewpoint I’m known for. But another part of me, louder, stronger, and more determined, refuses to listen to that. Deep down inside of me, there is a part that refuses to accept that the best thing in my life is temporary.

I give myself a hard shake and pedal the workout bike harder and faster. This is why I come here, to not think.

If I pedal fast enough, maybe I can shut out all the noise.

I send Lola a text to tell her that I have a work thing. A coward’s way out, I know. But I can’t see her tonight or tomorrow if I am going to the gala. First, I need to get my hair done, then I have to pick up a ridiculously expensive dress and have every single inch of me poked and prodded so that for one night I can look like I wake up that way—that when you are born this rich, your skin naturally glows in your sleep.

I won’t choose the dress; my mother’s personal stylist will. She will know what the other big names attending are wearing to be sure that I will appear unique, but still fit in perfectly. She will find the designer name that is just the right one to be wearing now, the shade that is just ahead of the trend, and the cut that will flatter. Something that will be sophisticated and beautiful, while oozing elegance and class.

All I need to do is dash over there after work to make sure the dress is fitted to perfection.

I keep fidgeting with my hands and tapping my foot against the floorboard as we weave through traffic. The driver continues to check his watch, giving me concerned looks in the rearview mirror.

I know he’s just trying to be helpful, but it only makes me more anxious. I don’t even want to think about what kind of mood my mother is going to be in when she finds out I showed up late to this fitting.

I stare out the window, watching the city rush by in a blur of buildings and people. All I can think about is how much I’d rather be anywhere else. But I know there’s no escaping this appointment. As we pull up to the boutique, my heart sinks. I take a deep breath and step out of the cab, steeling myself for whatever comes next. It’s time to face the music and get this over with.

Shona is cool. She is unemotional regarding my tardiness, which suits me perfectly. I know Shona will just add an extra charge onto my mother’s bill, and that suits us both. I can barely summon any excitement as I walk into Shona’s dress-fitting studio, but she should know by now not to expect excitement from me over dresses. While I can almost get excited over a beautifully fitted pant suit, dresses just seem to stress me out. There is so much pressure for them to be just right. For my body in the dress to be just right. Shona greets me with a lukewarm smile and ushers me to the dressing room.

As she helps me into the stunning silver dress, I can’t help but feel like it’s a royal waste of time. It will look like every other other dress I’ve worn a million times. And then I see myself in the mirror.

The way the fabric drapes over my curves is simply breathtaking. It hugs all the right places and flows gracefully down to the floor. I gasp at how beautiful I look. It is a dress that could truly steal the show.

The classic style exudes elegance and sophistication, and the color complements my skin tone perfectly. It’s as if this dress was made just for me.

I twirl and admire the way the material sways with every movement. Shona watches with pride, knowing she has found the perfect dress for me. “Always so little faith,” she says, as if she had known my thoughts when I first got here. “And I won’t tell your mother you were late,” she adds with a little smirk as she starts to unpin me. I give her a smile. Maybe she is one of the good ones after all.

I arrive at the gala, feeling uneasy and out of place--not that I don’t belong, but rather that I don’t want to belong to this world anymore. I force a smile as I step out of the car alone, surrounded by flashy cars and people dressed in ridiculously expensive clothing. My mother had suggested a list of suitable men I should contact as my plus-one for the evening, but I just couldn’t face it this time. The thought of a man on my arm and an evening of pretense makes me feel sick now.

I mentally add that to my list of things my mother is not going to be happy about.

The grand entrance to the gala is overwhelming, with bright lights and decorations that sparkle like diamonds. My mother has really gone to town this time.

I’m used to such extravagance and luxury but it still makes me feel icky and uncomfortable. Still, this event is important for me to attend. As I make my way inside, everyone turns their heads to look at me. Here, I am. No longer Willow, but Senator Rutherford’s daughter, which is both a blessing and a curse.

I feel exposed, even though I’m dressed beautifully. But despite how uncomfortable I feel, I try to hold my head high and appear confident. It seems like everyone there has someone to talk to except me. Which makes me a prime target for small talk.

As I make my way through the crowd, older men keep trying to chat and flirt with me. They talk about themselves and their accomplishments, clearly thinking they are impressing me. But all I can think about is how bored and uncomfortable I feel. I try to politely excuse myself from each encounter, but they just won’t take a hint. It’s exhausting.

I avoid my parents as much as possible, which is not easy. My radar is on full alert for them. I’m moving through the event seamlessly, never lingering in one place for too long. Making sure I take my seat at the last minute so I couldn’t get the “Willow darling” drop-by my mother loves to do. I settle in my seat, unfolding my napkin over my lap and glancing around the table.

Of course, I’m seated at the same table as my boss.

As soon as he sits down next to me, his charming presence makes me feel a bit more comfortable. He starts asking about my life outside of work and I find myself opening up to him. He is a nice guy--not what I expected. He is respectful in his questions, while pushing deeper to find out more from me.

I can see how impressed my boss is with my achievements and success. But deep down, I can’t help but wonder if this is all just for show. Does he really care about me, or is he just trying to get on my good side because of who my father is?

Either way, I know that making a good impression on my boss tonight is important for my career. So I play along and engage him in conversation throughout the night. Despite my reservations, I can’t deny that being in his company makes the evening slightly more bearable. Maybe, just maybe, this night isn’t such a waste after all.

But eventually, I can’t take it anymore. I find an excuse to leave early and practically run out the door, relieved to escape the stifling atmosphere. As the cab takes me away, I realize that money can buy many things, but it can never buy genuine human connection or happiness. And that thought makes me lean forward to tell the driver that my destination has changed. I need to go to where I really want to be: asleep in Lola’s arms.

I stumble into her apartment, tired and slightly tipsy from the wine that helped me survive the night. I can tell she is confused. It is Lola’s night off, so she has been resting for a while. She is already bleary-eyed and half asleep as I strip off my gown. She eyes it suspiciously and I know I am going to get questions about it tomorrow. I climb into bed next to Lola. I pull her up close and tight to me. I feel the need rise in her, to touch and to please me, but I stop her.

“I want you to fall asleep. Deep asleep in my arms. And then wake up to me,” I say. “I want you to know how it feels to wake up as my needy girl. Will you do that for me?” I ask Lola softly, as I wrap her up and play with her beautiful long hair. She nods, looking straight into my eyes as she does.

“I really want that.”

When Lola is really asleep, I put my hand on her head. I take my time gently guiding her down my body. She stirs a little, and I slow my pace until she is curled up warm between my thighs, her cheek gently resting against my pussy. She doesn’t even know I have put her there because she has slept through it, but now Lola can smell me in her sleep, and I like that.

Soon the efforts of the evening overcome me and I fall asleep myself.

I wake up to Lola nuzzling against my pussy. As I look down, I see that she is still half asleep. I reach down and open myself slightly for her. And as though on instinct, Lola’s mouth opens and her tongue reaches for me. I let out a sigh.

When she does wake, she will be surrounded by me. Her first everything will be me.

I start to rock more against her mouth. Small movements, but enough to make her body move too. I want her to wake up to me. I want to feel that pause as she stirs and tries to understand where she is. And then as she realizes . . . she’ll just settle in and lick more and more.

Slowly, Lola starts to wake.

I can see her eyelids flicker open. Her body tenses a little as that confusion flashes through her, as she tries to make sense of it all.

I stroke her hair the way I always do, soft and gentle, conditioning her body to know it’s okay. That she doesn’t need to think. She just needs to do whatever I want.

The moment passes and she reaches with her tongue again, settling immediately into licking me.

I let out a deeper sigh. Her tongue swirls as I feel her early morning hunger and her constant need for me. She has no shame or reluctance to show how much she wants me. Just eager, hungry licks, again and again.

I want to be her last taste every night and her first taste every morning.

My legs wrap around her. Sometimes I let her have space to explore and enjoy. But right now I need pressure. I need to grind against her pretty face.

She seems to sense what I want and pushes her face into me. Again and again in between licks. She knows what I want, and she gives it to me. She only wants to make me feel good.

“Fuck . . ..” I pull her in harder. My hips push up toward her. It makes me feel so good knowing that she has woken up like this. Minutes ago, Lola was asleep and now she is such a needy, desperate good girl, doing exactly what I want.

“You are such a good girl . . . such a good fucking girl . . .” I tell her over and over through my moans. Sometimes she can’t hear me because my thighs are so tight around her. But she knows. She can feel it. She can taste how good she is, all for me.

When I press her face tight into me it shuts everything out, and for once the noise in my head is quiet and I can lose myself in the feeling.

Her eyes are closed and I watch her lovely dark eyelashes flicker between my legs in concentration. Her face looks so beautiful, even there. Especially there.

I grind myself against her until I’m shaking hard. And Lola knows my body so well now. She knows what it means, so she presses her face in more.

And I let it happen. I let it build until it is all I can do, coming loud and hard all over her tongue and face. I fall back, my legs opening as I release her from my grip. But she still licks and laps until I can’t take anymore and then I reach for her. Pulling her up to me, so I can touch and taste her in return. Repaying the gift because she was such a good girl for me. My good girl.