Everything I knew about Sheila told me she was a master gamer with the skills of a chess genius. She did not offer me a job to alleviate unemployment, instead, she appeared to be working a gambit of some sort. The uncertainty of purpose generated within me a wave of anxious observation while I awaited developments. The chess pieces on the board were changing their position of their own accord. 

=^.^= 

"She wants you to be her what?" Darlene giggled in questioning amazement at my news. 

"Administrative Assistant. She wants me to be her number one gopher, and I start tomorrow." I am by nature, curious. I wanted to learn Darlene's thoughts on Sheila's offer. 

"That sounds like Sheila. She's got a good eye for people, and she has the knack of putting them where they do the most good or the least amount of damage," Darlene explained as she flipped a strand of hair out of her eyes. 

"What time do you start work?" 

"I'm not sure. She told me her day starts at 5:30 in the AM. I'm supposed to do the math and figure out when to report. What time do you suggest I be there by?" 

"If she told you 5:30, then I recommend you be there no later than 5:25, just to be on the safe side," Darlene advised. 

"In any case, I need to crash and get some sleep. I'm dead on my feet." I yawned and stretched. The drug of choice from Colombia and the adrenaline high for my new job both ran out of steam at the same time. 

At 5:15 sharp, I stood at the door to Sheila's office with two steaming cups of coffee. Martha from the kitchen crew prepared Sheila's coffee to the leader's liking. I noted the recipe, black with a splash of cream and a dash of sugar. 

"Here goes nothing," I mumbled under my breath as I rapped on her door the to the tune of, "shave-and-a-haircut two-bits." 

"Very cute, come in and take a seat," a naked Sheila said as she opened the door and motioned me to the chair by her desk. 

"I'm taking a shower, and I'll be back in a few minutes. In the meantime, please familiarize yourself with our tables of organization," Sheila directed me as she leaned over my shoulder to fetch a manilla folder from the corner of her desk. 

The side of her soft breast brushed my cheek with warmth as she stretched her body past mine to retrieve the paperwork. There are no accidents in Sheila's world. The physical contact was deliberate. She was either playing with me or testing me, not that it made any difference. She was the boss. 

Titillating as her touch was, I shook my head and studied the organizational charts of a colony. Thirty-seven black boxes representing every member of the Sisterhood and one grey box labeled "SkyWolf" adorned each of the pages; my little box attached directly to Sheila's. 

The table of organization for the Sisterhood is amazing. Sheila ran the show, but she served at the pleasure of the membership. Essentially, the Sisterhood operated like the Pirates and Buccaneers back in the age of sail. Piracy, despite its savage reputation, was a remarkably democratic institution. A pirate Captain served at the pleasure of his crew. 

Within the folder were scores of different tables of organizations designed to meet every apocalyptic contingency and scenario. If the end comes from war, the society plans were ready. Several of the women within the clan held degrees or training in the radiation or nuclear medicine. Pandemic? Three tables of organizations stood ready for deployment. 

Organizationally, the Society of Sisters was a bureaucratic Rubik's Cube with the ability to morph and adapt to ever-changing circumstances. Like the Marines, every sister was first a rifleman. Riflewoman? Whatever. They knew how to shoot. About fifteen of Sheila's kittens had the claws of an expert marksman. 

While serving in the United States Air Force, I worked as a staff member in several command wide conference rooms. I was a classic REMF (Rear Echelon Mother-Fucker) with the privilege of sitting in on countless command level meetings and briefings. I happened to be at the 5th Air Force operations center the day the North Koreans took the USS Pueblo on January 23, 1968. It was a total cluster-fuck. We'd stripped our ground forces of virtually all our weapons to feed the war in Vietnam, and the only air power available was armed with nukes. We had two military responses: either start World War III or grit our teeth. We clinched our jaws and did nothing. 

When it came to rank, I was an enlisted cellar-dweller with three stripes and an attitude. Nonetheless, I got to be a fly on the wall in Headquarters 5th and 7th Air Forces. I had the easy job of running the audiovisual equipment in the projection booth while Generals with more stars on their lapels then the night sky planned strategy and conducted top-secret meetings, briefings, and strategic planning sessions. 

Yah, I get this. Sheila's batch of mix-and-match scenarios was nothing more than the Sisterhood's version of the Pentagon's never-ending contingency planning. The military developed plans for almost any imaginable situation. Want to invade Mexico or Canada? The plans were on file. 

I got a thrill from reviewing Sheila's tables. I loved strategy and tactics and had been an avid wargamer in my day. I shuddered to think of the hundreds of hours I wasted playing the games published by Avalon Hill and other war game publishers. Little squares of cardboard represented military units from platoons to brigades to divisions and even army corps. 

The appropriate military symbol adorned each of playing piece along with a set of numerical factors representing attack, defense, and movement. The map boards covered in hexagonal "squares" became the field of battle. Each square of terrain added or detracted from a unit's combat capabilities. The actual gameplay was a mind-war between equally determined fanatics. 

The devil lives in the details and in the case of the war games we played, the particulars resided in sets of rules often exceeding a dozen or more double-sided pages set in tiny type. Players scoured the rules for loopholes and would argue their interpretations with all the passion of attorneys appearing before the supreme court. Combat results were determined by a random dice throw, as the odds improve so too did the chances of getting favorable results. 

"Ahh hum! I said familiarize yourself with them. I didn't expect you to commit the tables to memory," Sheila laughed. She was naked and dripping with water as she towel-dried her hair. 

"Don't you think you should put on some clothes?" I suggested as Sheila stood next to me, a patch of pubic hair a few inches in front of my nose. 

"Nope. My house, my rules. Deal with it and keep your trouser snake under control," she said with a chuckle as she patted the inside of my thigh. On the last touch, her fingers lingered a few moments longer than the others. 

Memo to self: research the details of the Sisterhood's Sexual Harassment policy. 

"I want to know your impressions about my plans, but first I need your help getting dressed," Sheila tossed the damp towel on the floor and sashayed her way toward the walk-in closet. Midway she turned, placed her hands on her hips and spread her legs, Amazon style. 

"I said I want your help and you can't help me from over there," she snapped her fingers and pointed at the floor beneath her feet. 

"Talk about boundary issues," I muttered under my breath as I clamored to my feet. 

"What did you say?" Sheila gave me "THAT" look. 

"Nothing. I said I was concerned about breakfast issues. We don't want to miss chow," I shrugged and approached the leader. What kind of hands-on-assistance did this lady require? 

"Danger, Will Robinson, Danger!" a little voice screamed from the back of my head. 

"After a hot shower, I like to rub on some bath oil." The Cheif handed me a crimson bottle of some exotic mixture of oil and spices from Turkey. "Please do the honors." 

"Uh, right here?" I studied at the flask in my hand like it was going to bite me. Then I glanced at Sheila impatiently waited for me to play masseuse. Naked, she stood before me, her hands on her hips and her legs spread eagle, daring me to disobey. 

"Do you want a standing lube-job or do you usually lay down when you get an oil change?" 

"Today I prefer to stand. Don't miss a spot and be quick about it. We're burning daylight." 

I rubbed a splash of oil between my palms and paid particular attention to her toes as I began to massage the oil into the skin of her feet. "Foot up," I instructed as I lifted her toes and anointed the sole of her foot with oil. Sheila wobbled a bit and held my head for balance. Score one for my side. 

I re-planted her foot and applied a sheen of the luxury oil to her ankles and caressed and massaged my way upward. I shivered as my fingers played tag with the soft warmth of her skin and my hands slowly slid upwards toward the gates of heaven. 

Water droplets from her shower hung like Christmas decorations from her neatly trimmed pubic hair and her sleek, smooth legs quivered with tension as I massaged and caressed my way toward paradise. 

"I told you not to miss a spot," Sheila said as she looked down at my hands massaging the insides of her upper thighs. She shifted position and spread her legs slightly further apart to improve her balance. The view was breathtaking. 

We locked eyes as my fingertips rubbed the scented oil lightly across the surface of her pussy lips. She let out a quick gasp and tightly closed her eyes when my fingers brushed playfully across the top of her clitoral hood. Facial muscles contorted and relaxed as she fought against her growing arousal. Her face was conflicted as she fought against her rising sexual response to my touch. The more intense the pleasure, the more she struggled for control in a weird game of self-denial. 

I placed my hands on each side of her hips and turned her body around so that her bare bottom faced me. I loved the way the cheeks of her ass glistened with oil as I massaged and caressed her behind. 

By the time I was applying lotion to her breasts, her chest was glowing a reddish pink. Her nipples stood as stiff as pencil erasers, and she had a difficult time keeping her balance. Sheila trembled and swayed to my vertical massage. She blinked, and her muscles tightened and relaxed as I applied the last of the lotion. My fingertips traced the outline of her mouth and the contours of her jaw before coming to rest on her shoulders. 

"Will there be anything else?" I raised a questioning eyebrow. 

"No, thank you. I'll take it from here," Sheila smiled and dismissed me from my chores. 

The bathroom game, as I came to call it, became the standard start of each day. The unwritten rules were simple. I would do nothing overtly sexual. We pretended my application of bath oil was purely functional and clinical, and she pretended not to be aroused. Thank God I was fully dressed. I leaked like a broken faucet at the end of each session. She got pleasure from resisting, and I gained pleasure by persisting. 

Other than the kinky start to my work day, I found the position as her assistant to be both fascinating and challenging as I did my best to anticipate her administrative needs. Through observation and experience, I learned to appreciate her organizational skills 

Sheila took her responsibilities as the colony's leader seriously. Had she been a man in the military, I had no doubt organizational skills would have propelled her through the ranks to become a two or three-star general.