Penelope Prim

By Robert Scott Leyse

Stuart, newly hired by a Manhattan law firm, is immediately attracted to his coworker Penelope—a woman who, apparently embarrassed by her beauty, does her best to downplay it with conservative attire, as well as extremely reserved behavior. Regardless of appearances to the contrary, Stuart feels Penelope has a fiery disposition and isn't indifferent to love: he's convinced she's putting on a chastity act, even if he can't imagine why. Increasingly captivated by Penelope and determined to solve her mystery, Stuart sets about gaining her trust; but she, although always friendly, remains inaccessible. His coworkers, convinced Stuart’s blind to the obvious and only seeing what he wants to see, chasing after a figment of his over-hopeful imagination, marvel at his stubborn persistence. But could Stuart's perceptions be accurate? Is Penelope leading a double life, to an extent unimaginable to those at the office? Does she wear the mask of propriety to throw her coworkers off the scent?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Scott Leyse
• Release date: Jul 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465705563

Robert Scott Leyse

Robert Scott Leyse has slacked galore at corporate law and pharmaceutical advertising firms (while valued by his employers); worked as a New York cab driver on the night shift; lived without visa in Paris for over two years; taken a belly dance class in Green Bay, WI; come close to sliding to his death on loose gravel above a sea cliff in his hometown of San Francisco (nails bloodied by digging into the dirt saved his life); and the most incandescent yoga class he’s had was on a SUP during a storm in San Juan, PR. He eats fish heads and insects and drinks blood, but can’t be paid to eat potato chips or cake.

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Penelope Prim

by Robert Scott Leyse

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 Robert Scott Leyse

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This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, and events, past or present, is entirely coincidental.

Cover Star: Angie Esther Ella Leyse

Photo: Robert Henry Leyse

Cover Built by RSL

Published on Smashwords

by ShatterColors Press

New York, New York

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Chapter 1

I imagine every man who appreciates gorgeous women, lives for enthralling conquests, has encountered a Penelope Prim—a woman who, apparently ill at ease on account of being conspicuously well-endowed, is compelled to downplay her attributes by exclusively presenting herself in conservative attire. Penelope was both the most stunning woman at the firm—the firm a world-renowned midtown Manhattan law firm—and the woman who was least inclined to parade her beauty: she behaved as if her beauty didn’t exist. Aside from having highly appealing curves, none disproportionate to the others and throwing the balance off, she measured in at five feet eleven inches tall, weighed in at a size eight, clocked in at thirty-two years, had a face of stop-and-stare-at radiance of complexion and symmetry of line. Penelope’s customary demeanor, noted by many admiring, if resigned to defeat, men was that of inviolable placidity—as if nothing short of a meteor striking the city, if that, could compel her to abandon it. She also possessed the finest head of soft-textured pitch-black hair any woman could wish for.

Penelope’s hair was never seen in freefall: she religiously imprisoned it in a bun, nary a wisp escaping, and its length could only be deduced. According to the bun’s size, the tightness of which couldn’t wholly rein in her hair’s abundance, it might easily reach her lower back. Occasionally her frumpy dresses—high necklines, mid-shin hems, long sleeves, cut from heavy cotton or wool, of dull colors, often beige—would fail to deprive observers of a glimpse of her figure’s glories, as when a strong wind on the sidewalk pinned the fabric to her body. Very infrequently, and only if the thermometer hit the nineties, she’d wear a knee-length pleated skirt, always a dark color, and blouse—invariably a pale gray or off-white blouse which, if viewed from the side when adequate light was behind it, would acquire enough transparency to allow a reasonably accurate assessment of the proportions of her midriff and breasts. Several men, on account of these rare displays, had noted that Penelope, although of voluptuous build with an ample bosom, was possessed of a trim waistline and very fit and toned. Penelope’s blouses caused one man to observe there was a portion of her personality, be it ever so slight, that couldn’t resist being mildly exhibitionistic a half dozen times a year—an observation that was enthusiastically, even if wryly, embraced by most of those to whom it was conveyed.

Enter Stuart, a man of thirty-seven years recently hired by the corporate department, where Penelope works and is highly valued, assigned to high-profile deals. Shortly after setting eyes on Penelope Stuart declared he wouldn’t know a moment’s peace until she became his; and he was aware he shouldn’t declare such publicly, he’d never done so before, been that reckless, but didn’t care—if anything, he felt public declaration would oblige him to deliver. According to him she was a woman who, despite contrary appearances, endured sleepless nights on account of feverish yearnings and desired above all to indulge them. He didn’t feel there was a small portion of her personality that occasionally semi-consciously played at being exhibitionistic with a backlit-blouse maneuver—not for him such naivete. He insisted she was a thoroughgoing tease, dropping veiled sex-signals: she was simply waiting for a man capable of deciphering them, overwhelming her. She was putting on a chastity-act, he said, in order to keep the uninitiated at bay, avoid being pointlessly pestered. The man capable of decoding her secret sex-language, approaching her without annoying her, committing the sins of clumsiness or presumptuousness, would be treated to mind-bending sensual rapture few imagine possible, lifted out of his skin. She was love-hungry but her hunger wouldn’t settle for anything less than soul-altering delirium. She’d never shortchange her instincts, bow to social pressure—acquire a boyfriend solely to parade him—for the sake of halting speculation concerning her relationship-status, amazement she was not only apparently uninvolved but unconcerned about it. She didn’t care a whit about broadening her social circle via a relationship, placing others at ease concerning her isolation. Yes, he’d stress, the notion Penelope was prudish was laughable: she thirsted to surrender to the sort of all-consuming, potentially disruptive, desire convention frowns upon and such was the key to her reserve. The extent of her reserve indicated presence of an ardent and daring disposition, necessitating she exert herself to keep it under wraps; lack of overt evidence of desire betrayed desire that scorned anything run-of-the-mill. In short, Stuart would conclude, Penelope harbored preferences the likes of which would make seasoned streetwalkers blush, was thirsting to explore them with a worthy man. When a group of men, rolling their eyes, opined he was succumbing to wishful thinking, projecting qualities onto Penelope that suited his fancy and ignored her prudish tendencies, Stuart shrugged his shoulders and smiled, saying, Suit yourselves—you’ll never have a chance with her. Thanks for leaving the field to me.

How can you say, Stuart would argue, "that Penelope doesn’t dress sexy? The dresses that you say conceal her charms do nothing of the sort: they fit snugly enough and when she’s walking in front of me in the hall her behind undulates under the material—all that rippling sensuality, fluid flexibility, muscle tone. I can feel electricity radiate from her hips—sense