salad dressing
Helena Eagan got home to her penthouse apartment just before 4am and was greeted by the constipated, concerned faces of her housekeeper and guard. She asked them to tell Father she was just looking at reports and forgot the time. They shared a minute conspiratorial look that peeved her, but she ignored it.
When she was sure her fussy housekeeper was gone, Helena showered methodically, scrubbing down every inch of her skin. Clean again, she took her new trophy – the pack of pasta shells and pushed them around her hands. Hearing their dull clinks and scuffing was quickly becoming a fun pastime. At 4:40am sharp she crept under her cool linen covers and raked four neat lines into each of her wrists with her fingernail. She counted each one as she thought about Gemma. Recounted to herself all her favourite, tingling moments: her long wavy hair and eyelashes, her nonchalance, her angelic voice – that was completely unafraid.
She forced her thoughts down like a dial with every line across her wrist, until it sank to zero. Then she set her alarm for 7am and went to sleep.
𓃵
The fettuccine alfredo could not look more uninviting to Gemma. Her stomach growled, but the thought of eating made her queasy. Eventually, she settled for a warm black coffee and switched on the TV. She flicked through all the available channels, news, variety shows, soap operas, cartoons. Everything sucked. She remembered her promise to Devon to take some time off and scoffed. Sitting here in her own thoughts was excruciating. Any she could think of trying felt sickening. She had an urge to call Devon and ask what her leads on Mark were. Maybe she could help, do research, look for something. Anything. But she knew Devon would only turn her away.
Gemma sighed, sinking back into her sofa in resignation. Her thoughts were circling back to her strange encounter with Helena Eagan, a ball of confusion she’d been unable to unravel since waking up. She fetched her laptop, opened a browser and typed Helena Eagan into the search bar.
The usual flood of articles came up: Helena Eagan claims comment “Innies are slaves!” was taken out of context. Highlights from the Conference for Severance Legalisation. Lumon Heiress assures Severance procedure “values choice and looks to the future”. Opinion: Helena Eagan and corporatism fronts the new toxic anti-feminist movement. This wasn’t Gemma’s first time googling her. The previous times had been done in rage, with Gemma clicking through hysterically, looking for loopholes, clues to Lumon’s plans. This time, however, Gemma found herself scrolling with a much more leisurely interest. She found herself especially searching out and peering at any photos of her: paparazzi snaps, Linkedin features, business event coverages.
Always the same puffed red waves, the pressed black suits and a bright, corporate smile. It was all such a perfect front. Gemma continued to click on older and older search pages. She found one of Helena in the middle of a laugh, her eyes closed like crescent moons, her lips joyously parted as she shook an older man’s hand at what looked like a networking event. Gemma stared at it for a long time. This clump of impenetrable pixels, this monstress. She didn’t know how to feel. Then on pages 10-12, Gemma spotted something new. An old youtube video thumbnail: Kier Cheerleaders Winter Bash 2007! . Despite the low resolution, Gemma spotted Helena’s unmistakable red hair. She did the quick math: Helena would’ve been 17. Shakily, she clicked the video link, and was met with a blaring marching band tune. Lumon sure liked their things old-timey. The unmoving camera, probably perched on a tripod somewhere in the bleachers, watched on as a dozen young teenagers pranced about in skin tight blue and white costumes. Gemma skipped to the middle of the video.
She watched as what was supposedly a teenage Helena hopped, beamed and spun, waving fat tinsel pom poms in her hands. Her movements were far from any professional athlete, but were sprightly, passionate. Unbridled like any wild teenager, or maybe a cookie girl scout. Gemma could picture being in school with her. She wondered if Helena would have ever been the popular type, but being flirty and extroverted seemed far from her impression of the surly, put-together woman. There was something rather awkward about her.
In the video, Helena’s lipsticked mouth contorted into a silly, giddy grin, her arms outstretched in a star pose as she ended the routine in the centre, with everyone shouting in unison. “K! I! E! R! KIER!!!” A modest applause sounded from offscreen. Gemma closed the tab, unnerved. At the bottom of the search page, a defunct gossip column headline blared: Princess gone rogue? Underage biotech conglomerate heiress spotted at the club! Gemma’s cursor moved like lightning.
The screen switched to an overexposed photo taken at the door of a sleazy looking nightclub, forcefully illuminated by a vulgar flash of white. In the middle of the cropped frame, Helena Eagan looked more different than she ever did to Gemma. She stood walking by in a ruffled white, lacy tank top, low rise skinny jeans and sneakers, her hair mussed from partying, an empty plastic beer cup in the midst of being crushed in her hand. She was captured looking back, eyes gazing dead into the camera, widened with the lightest tinge of wonder, or even fear.
She looked just like Helly R did in that hallway. As if burned, Gemma curled her fingers away from the laptop. She was itching for a shot of gin.
𓃵
Natalie Kalen adjusted her earpiece for the hundredth time, then slid the lunch menu across the boardroom desk to Helena, who suppressed a groan. So it was going to be a long meeting. She eyed the speaker on the table, then Natalie. Stupid grinny bitch .
She was ready to slide the menu back; she skips lunch most days. But her eye fell on the third option: Chicken Salad with Alfredo Sauce: Steamed chicken strips on a bed of cucumber, cherry tomatoes, strained black olives and assorted salad greens. Topped with creamy alfredo sauce and fresh basil leaves. Gemma’s whitish fettuccine came to mind. Her greasy, homey cooking. She bit the inside of her cheek. No pasta, that should be fine.
She left a tick beside Chicken Salad and scribbled serve dressing separately before handing the form to a secretary.
“Let’s get to it, shall we?”
“Of course. The board appreciates your time, Helena. One second-” she pressed a fingertip to her earpiece, in a way that could not be more patronising, “The board would like to begin with Appendix B.”
They went back and forth for several hours. Short term crisis management, long term KPIs, proposed NDAs, upcoming motions. As Natalie droned on, Helena resisted tapping her foot. She smiled back with the same rehearsed, placating look as always, while she visualised the black marble walls transforming into supermarket aisles. Natalie herself morphing into Gemma with a shopping cart.
“The board would like to bring up the discussion of stakeholders and percentages,” Natalie added cheerily, jolting Helena violently out of her fancy.
“I thought we laid that to rest at our last discussion.”
“Well, the board worries, with- recent developments, that it might benefit us not to put… all our eggs in one basket.”
“I give my utmost assurance that everything is proceeding well. We’ve had some setbacks, yes, but all our contingency plans have followed promptly.”
“Ah… The board would like to clarify if the contingency plan includes the escape of Gemma Scout and the confinement of Mark Scout. In fact, you are scheduled to be on the severed floor for several hours this afternoon, are you not?”
Helena raised her brows, offended. And who decided to put her in this predicament in the first place? She searched her mind for a defense. “I-” Natalie lifted a finger.
“The board is satisfied with the information provided for this agenda point and will review the matter,” she paused and grinned, again . “Thank you, Helena. Let’s break for lunch, shall we? You must be famished!”
Like clockwork, the secretary entered with a push cart of boxed lunches. When he set Helena’s infront of her, she froze.
“Something wrong?” Natalie cracked open her box. Salmon quinoa drizzled with lemon.
Helena looked down at her chicken salad, plated in a clean circular pattern. Over the top, it was fully drenched in an opaque, pasty white sauce. So much of it was heaped over that it was still slowly dripping, weighing down the flaky greens, thick sheeny goops of calories soaking straight into the fresh concoction. Definitely not served separately. Helena felt her insides prickle.
“No, nothing wrong,” she forced her hand to pick up the fork. She was not about to be forced to talk about this in an obligement session again.
When was the last time she had salad dressing like this? Dumped over instead of measured out, ratio-ed perfectly into each forkful. As discreetly as she could, she pushed the excess sauce to the side of the bowl and watched it sink further down. She told herself she could eat the top half and leave the rest, but the first mouthful already overwhelmed her. The sauce was rich, perfectly savoury, and delectable – it was whipped from butter, milk and cheese, how could it not be? She could not stop its creamy warmth from coating her tongue, even as she moved it around. It tasted… so sexy. But her throat felt like it was closing up, her brain screaming stop what are you doing,don’t swallow, don’t swallow, don’t swallow, please.
She thought of hollowing herself out. She thought of Father. Then she tried thinking of herself as Gemma as she ate. Her mind leapt. She did herself one better. She pretended she was Mark, eating his wife’s cooking after a long day at work. Delicious, ma’am . Good job. Helena counted – 5 more mouthfuls, and then we’re done. She picked the cleanest greens and tomatoes she could find and gobbled them one by one, chewing every bite twenty dutiful times.
“Is that yummy? I almost picked it,” Natalie chimed in, her mouth full of fragrant quinoa. What would it be like to stand up, walk over and take her on this table? Hmm. Helena gave a light sneer, running her tongue over the aftertaste on the roof of her mouth. Creamy, salty, greasy. Hot.
“It’s alright.”
As soon as the meeting was over, Helena marched to the restroom, stuck two fingers into her throat and heaved it all back up. The efficiency of it pleased her, as did that familiar ringing in her ears, a delectable sensation of floating. The burning throat and spontaneity of it, not so much. She rinsed her mouth twice, looking into the mirror to make sure her eyes weren’t bloodshot or too teary. The philosophy of binging and purging had always agreed with her. The see-saw of pleasure and pain, fullness and emptiness, lust and purity. She only stopped because it gave her weak enamel. A good smile needs good teeth, Father had said when he found out.
She grinned hard into the mirror, examining her pearly whites. Her jaw trembled to the throbbing in her head. This is what you do to me, Gemma Scout .
Then she got ready, and went down to the severed floor.
𓃵
Helena found herself in Gemma’s kitchen again. She was standing by the entrance, watching as Gemma, clad in a stained floral apron and messy bun, worked the stove. Sharp sounds of sizzling and bubbling filled Helena’s ears, her vision fizzling along as she observed Gemma’s slender body that half leaned against the kitchen top.
“What are you doing standing there?” Gemma asked. Why could she always tell she was being watched? Gemma turned around. It was too quick for Helena to duck away so she stood still, gazing stupidly. The saucepan in Gemma’s hand was filled with lumpy, pale Alfredo sauce.
A genuine chuckle bursted from Gemma’s lips. “Some help, maybe?”
“Oh- um, sure,” Helena stepped towards her tentatively.
Gemma laughed again. A bright, sweet sound. “The pasta, Mark. You have to pour it in while I’m stirring.” She darted her chin towards a pot of strained, steaming fettuccine. Daylight from the windows bathed everything in a surreal glow. Gemma’s face shone, heavenly as the stove’s heat drove a bead of sweat down her forehead. Of course, her brain suddenly voiced, you promised to help with the pasta, you idiot.
“Right, here you go,” Helena lifted the pot and dunked it, watching the noodles slip happily. Delivered into the vortex of the gorgeous, wet sauce. Gemma stirred and folded expertly, coating every inch of the fettuccine. “Thanks, babe.” In the metal of the pot, Helena glimpsed her own reflection but could never get a good look. It kept shifting, slipping through clarity.
“Who am I?” she asked. Gemma continued stirring, her hips dipping playfully into Helena’s side. Droplets of alfredo sauce and melted butter spurted around. “You’re mine.” Oh yeah, right, of course.
Helena stepped behind Gemma and slipped her arms around her, making her chuckle. Watching was suddenly not enough. She ached to feel all of Gemma’s body, to engulf it completely and forever. “How was work?”
“Shitty. You know, I actually had some of this for lunch today. In salad form.” Helena perched a chin on Gemma’s shoulder, watching her cook.
“How dare you, that’s pasta adultery.” Gemma put down her wooden spatula and used a fork to twirl a bunch of fettuccine alfredo. A sizeable, slobbery mouthful. Gemma lifted the fork past her face, to Helena’s lips. “Taste.” A shiver of trepidation lanced through Helena’s limbs. A strand of noodle brushed against her lower lip and she could feel its warmth. Her mouth parted, the pasta entered. “Just for you.”
“For me?” The inside of her mouth entered a new oasis. “Delicious, you’re gonna make me fat, babe.”
“I’m making you squishy, just for me. All for me.”
Helena’s arms curled tighter around Gemma’s waist. My wife, my pasta. She suddenly realised she was absolutely starved. Not just in her gut, but also between her legs. Gemma’s head turned, her eyes searching for Helena’s, and she knew exactly what to do. Their lips slowly met in a sweet, delicious kiss. She tasted like alfredo sauce on acid. Like whipped cream from the Gods. Gemma dropped the fork, turned around and roughly jerked Helena’s waist against hers. Her hands were already groping about Helena’s hips, cupping her ass. Her lips got to work on Helena’s neck, sending pathetic whimpers out of the redhead’s throat. The sharp clinking and nipping of her teeth drove Helena crazy. Gemma pulled apart just slightly enough to gaze hotly into Helena’s eyes.
“I want you to fucking eat me.”
Helena jerked awake, her heart pounding wildly in her ribcage. Overstimulated, she feverishly crumpled the duvet and thrust it aside from her sweating, pulsing skin. Something hard was digging into her back. She reached in and pulled out the groovy, beady trinket. A lone pasta shell. The rest of the packet sat next to her pillow, half a dozen spilling out onto her mattress.
The remnants of her dream burned in her mind’s eye. Gemma’s cozy kitchen, her soft body. The stupid fantasy she had today at lunch had obviously burrowed its way, somehow, into her subconscious. Why did she even think of that? The absurdity of it all boggled Helena. She remembered the lacklustre encounter she’d had with Mark S. at the OTBRO, an experiment born out of her usual, morbid curiosity. Or maybe just boredom. It took longer, and was much more tiresome than she would have anticipated. He , on the other hand, seemed to really enjoy it. She had seen it in his eyes – he was subconsciously imagining Gemma, even if he did not really know it. She could empathise with the appeal.
Helena still felt an insatiable heat between her legs. She clenched her fist tightly around the pasta shell, trying to ground herself with the sting of it digging into her palm. It did nothing. The clock read 3:12AM. There was no way she was going to fall back asleep if she didn’t relieve herself. She relented, a hand travelling over the fabric of her silk nighties. Her fingers kneaded her mount at a measured pace as she slowly relaxed, letting out a breathy exhale. She tried to recreate how Gemma had touched her in the dream, remembering the sweat on her brow.
With the first sensations of pleasure seeping in, Helena began to quicken her pace. She tugged the elastic band of her pajama pants and slipped her hand in, her fingers making contact with her matted pubic hair, the overflowing wetness within. Oh God , how easy it was to slip as her fingertips fumbled, looking for her twitching clitoris. How would Gemma do it? She flicked over it once, roughly, hearing the wet smack of her desire. It made her throb and seethe. She gave in, looking down at her widespread legs as she diddled herself and pictured Gemma feasting where her fingers were.
“I want you to fucking eat me,” she whispered to herself, pretending to hear it in Gemma’s voice.
When she fucked Mark, she prayed hard he wouldn’t ask for a blowjob. The idea was always icky to her, but if it were Gemma… She realised she wouldn’t mind at all. The thought of it made her instinctively lick her lips and groan. “You’re mine,” Gemma’s voice in her head said. I’m yours! Helena needed to cum so bad. But it wasn’t happening. Her pleasure would cycle, mounting as she rubbed herself furiously and imagined Gemma’s body, then subsiding again. A frustrated whine tore from her. Unclenching her fisted free hand, she had an idea.
She reached for the packet beside her and stuck a fingertip into the crevice of a pasta shell. Experimentally, she licked over its grooved surface; the texture sent an exhilarating rush through her. Not waiting another second, she moved her hand down and used the pasta shell against her clit. Its roughness shocked her, bled into her. She ran through the images again: Gemma making fettuccine alfredo, Gemma fondling pasta in her hands, Gemma nipping her neck, Gemma eating her out, Gemma writhing in pleasure.
“All for me.”
“Fuck!” Helena’s orgasm hit her like a steam truck. She saw stars as she stroked herself through the explosion, felt herself blacking out and coming alive again. The pleasure shook her violently, leaving her dizzy and sticky when she finally calmed down.
She removed her finger and peered at the pasta shell, filed down and moistened from her lust. Mmm, alfredo sauce. She slipped into her mouth and chewed, closing her eyes painfully, soaking in a familiar fatigue and dread.
This is getting out of hand , she thought.
𓃵
“All I can be is sorry, and that is all I am,” Helena mumbled to her rearview mirror, as she gathered her laptop bag and fished out her access lanyard. She had repeated it all through the car ride to the office, feeling out the sounds, contorting her mouth to the recitation. But there was no peace. As soon as she was in the building, she made a beeline for the main security control room.
“Take a break,” she demanded of the guard sitting before the CCTV feed. He obediently stepped out.
Helena logged into the security server and searched around. It took her less than a minute to get to what she was looking for: MDR_MarkS. When she clicked in and magnified, the screen flickered to a frontal view of an empty chair in the MDR office. Mark S.’s chair.
Where is he? She glanced at the live timestamp and felt a flicker of annoyance. 9:03AM. These innies sure knew how to skive. Right then, the frame was suddenly blocked by an incoming figure with a coffee cup. In a freshly pressed dress shirt and chiffon pants, Mark S. sat down and reached behind the computer for the start switch.
He looked rather dapper for someone being held hostage. Chirpy, even. Then again, maybe this was like some vacation to him. The current agreement was for Helly R to come in for around twenty hours a week, give or take. Helena could never understand what Helly or Gemma saw in him. To the board, he was simply a kid who needed his girl candy to get to work. Nonetheless, Helena was here, seeking him out.
The easiest way to reach him was to directly hack his feed, and this Helena did. Marketing was largely content with presenting Helena as a poster face and for most of her tenure, her years of forced engineering and tech training rarely found any chances to show itself. Now, she expertly maneuvered her system and set up a running text page, then typed in her greeting.
_Hello Mark S., this is Helena Eagan. I would like to talk.
Message received. The Mark S. on her CCTV feed flinched back. He darted his eyes about, understandably anxious. Helena typed again.
_Seth Milchik is occupied for the morning. I can hear and see you. Speak freely.
Mark S. raised his brows incredulously. “Right, I should’ve guessed. Eyes and ears everywhere, right?” She hadn’t heard his voice in awhile. It still carried that same relaxed, whimsical, mildly sarcastic quality that always amused her. Helena bit her lip.
“Alright. We did think this might happen at some point,” Mark S. quipped, leaning back into his swivel chair.
_We?
“Helly and I. What do you want to know? Oh-um, should I look here?” He pointed towards a spot on the screen. Nope, but whatever .
Helena considered his words for a moment. It should not have surprised her that Mark and Helly talked about her, but it still disturbed her nerves. Mentally, she centered herself. She had one goal for today, and she was going to stay focused. This is about regaining control, Helena. Get a fucking grip. She typed her question and hit enter.
_What does Helly R want from me?
𓃵 to be continued 𓃵