An adult stories – The Personal Assistant by HoneyMelrose,HoneyMelrose Saturday 2nd June 2012
11.45pm
Dressing room of ‘Pure Sophistication’ Gentlemen’s Club
“Babe, have you got a pair of scissors? I need to cut this tampon string.” The girl holds aloft a tampon applicator, white thread hanging loose like a mouses’ tail.
“Oh, yeah, sure,” I say, rifling in my duffle bag and pulling out a pink-handled pair. I’m the stripper who comes equipped; born Virgo, endlessly organised.
“Thanks,” she says, snapping a chewing gum bubble. She disappears into the toilet cubicle attached to the performers’ dressing room.
I turn back to the mirror, touch up my powder a little, reapply my lipliner. With my natural blonde hair, bronzed skin and apple-green eyes, I’m a good earner for the club. Strip club attendees are pretty classist on the whole, and inevitably tow-headed British-born girls do better than most. It doesn’t hurt that my figure is naturally good; I’m 5’7, but with the stature of a more statuesque woman. I have a flat brown stomach and long legs. My boobs are a little on the small side, but I rarely get complaints.
“Thank you, hon,” my fellow dancer says, reentering the room and chucking my scissors back in my duffel bag. She looks at me in the mirror; her eyes are ringed with eyelash extensions, her lips plumped full of filler, but somehow behind all the cosmetic tweaks there’s a naked vulnerability to her.
“My other tampon almost didn’t come out,” she says to me. “I was fishing around for fucking ages!”
I laugh sympathetically. I love strippers. The strip club is always filled with a ragtag bunch of artsy, middle-class students, drug-fuelled party girls, old-school glamazons, and those of us who come from what society would term a ‘disadvantaged background’ (as though those two words could accurately convey the chaos we were brought up in).
“I hate when that happens,” I reply, and then I close my clutch bag with a snap. “Right, I’m going back down.”
“Have fun,” the girl says, applying plumping lip gloss to her already full lips and pouting in the mirror.
“Thanks,” I reply over my shoulder, and I descend the dressing room stairs down to the main floor of the club. With every step the music gets louder, until the door spits me out and the noise engulfs me.
The bar is heaving. Customers clamour for the attention of the strippers who walk around in scanty clothing. Girls lead men by the hand to the back, where the VIP Rooms are. Men look up as I pass, do a double take, scan the length of my lithe body clad in red lingerie and stockings.
“Where the fuck did that come from?” I hear a man say approvingly as I walk past. I can’t help but smile.
“Babe, will you do a stage show?” I hear a man’s voice say from behind me. I turn around and see it’s the DJ. I sigh.
“It’s not my turn,” I say to him. This is the exact reason that we have a show rota.
“I know, but Bunny’s in an hours’ VIP right now,” he says, his tone just the tiniest bit pleading.
I roll my eyes and walk to the pole stage. The DJs always do this to me, because they know I’m popular with punters and I put on a good show. As the first strains of Alex Clare’s ‘Too Close’ plays over the sound system, I climb to the top of the pole and tip backwards. Customers turn in their seats, eager to watch me.
I’m an acrobatic performer; I like tricks. I hear the crowd holler and wolf whistle as I throw myself around the pole. As the song builds to a tumult, I perform my piece de resistance; dropping from the top of the pole into the splits. The crowd is wild with cheers. It’s hard not to get a rush from this. As I jump up from the floor and give a cutesy little half-curtsey to the applause, though, I catch sight of one curious face in the crowd. It belongs to a man named Jason Welby, one of the most lucrative clients of Bichard Building Supplies, the company I work for by day. Shit.
I peer at him to see if he recognises me, and he gives me a knowing nod and a wink. My insides turn cold.
For the rest of the night, I go through the motions of making money, but I’m agitated, on edge. Jason left soon after my pole show, so I didn’t get to talk to him. I fret all night that he will talk to my boss, Piers, about the fact that I work here. I’m woefully under qualified for the role of Personal Assistant to the CEO as it is. Thanks to my chaotic upbringing, I only have a handful of GCSEs, but Piers must have seen some sort of potential in me at my interview a few months ago. If Jason talks to him about the fact I’m a stripper, Piers’ perception of me will be dashed. I can’t afford to lose my job.
Sunday 3rd June 2012
7.36pm
The Stables (Bichard/Bell residence)
It had been a beautifully hot and languorous day… not that Aoife had enjoyed it, Piers thought resentfully. He’d asked her to accompany him to the beach, but she’d insisted that she had too much work to do, so he’d gone alone. Whilst down there, he’d noted how women’s eyes still followed him, travelling the length of his tanned torso, the muscles still as defined as they had been twenty years ago. He’d turned 42 in March, but he knew he was still attractive to women. Every woman except his wife, that is.
He was in his office upstairs now, steadily making his way through emails. Having his own business was more work than he ever could have imagined.
“Well, I could have told you that,” he pictured Aoife saying. His wife had co-founded a fashion PR firm, Johansen Bell Communications, over a decade ago. It still stung slightly that she had started a business before him.
Piers’ phone began to ring, and he could see that it was Jason Welby, one of his top clients. Why was he ringing on a Sunday? Piers answered with some trepidation.
“Hello, Jason,” he said, attempting to keep his tone light and professional. “What can I do for you?”
“Alright, mate?” Jason said, and even that set Piers on edge. Piers wasn’t a ‘mate’ kind of man; other men didn’t generally strike a chummy tone with him. “Bit awkward… need to talk to you about that little secretary you’ve got, what’s-her-name…”
“Emilia?” Piers answered in confusion. What did his PA have to do with anything? “Has she done something wrong? I did remind her to send through your last invoice…”
“No, that came through fine,” Jason said. “It’s just… well, I was at a strip club last night, and she was working there.”
Piers hesitated for a moment.
“As a bartender?” he said eventually.
“No fella… as a stripper,” Jason replied, and Piers suddenly realised that Jason was actually enjoying telling him this. There was ill-disguised glee in his voice. What a prick.
“Right… well, thanks for alerting me to this,” Piers said, with as much dignity and self restraint as he could muster.
“No worries, I’d want to know if it was my sec…”
“Yep, thanks again,” Piers said shortly, closing the call down. Probably not the best way to end a call with a client, but he’d have to deal with the consequences later. In that moment, he was so furious that he couldn’t speak.
Emilia was the face of his company, the first person people saw when they walked into his office. He thought he’d chosen well. At her interview, he’d noted that she was composed and capable, even if she did lack formal qualifications. It had helped that she was very good-looking, of course; in a male-dominated industry like his own it was useful to have a pretty young thing to keep the customers coming back in. But he’d thought she was unaware of her own attractiveness, that the shy smiles she reserved for him were indicative of her own obliviousness. Now he realised that she had just been using her good looks to get what she wanted all along… and sullying the image of his newly-established business as she did so.
He brought up her smiling image on his company site and looked angrily at it. Emilia Hart, Personal Assistant. He felt the faint stirrings of his dick getting hard.
Monday 4th June 2012
7.08am
Flat B, Dean Court (home of Emilia Hart)
Early on Monday morning, I lay in bed after a restless night’s sleep. My stomach had been churning with anxiety all weekend, wondering if Jason Welby would have said anything to Piers. Something about the scheming glint in his eyes that night told me he would have. Biting my lip to qualm my nerves, I reach for my phone on the bedside table, and scroll through to my favourite Horoscope app. I click on the day’s reading for Virgo, and a cool, clear woman’s voice with an American accent began to read;
‘Today is a day to expect the unexpected. While events may transpire that feel uncomfortable in the moment, in the long run the consequences of those events may come to surprise you.’
“What a crock of shit,” I say aloud, talking to no one in particular. I need actual guidance, not this crap. I throw my phone back on my pillow in disgust.
Reluctantly, I get out of bed and into the shower. If I’m going to face the firing squad today, I might as well look good doing it. I dress in a virtuous-looking white blouse and a grey form-fitting pencil skirt. I blow-dry my hair into gentle curves and put on just a touch of light makeup. I almost go to leave, then I double back. My crystal rune stones sit in a grapefruit-pink glass bowel on my dresser. I select the stone carved with the Algiz symbol, that of defence and protection, and slip it in my coat pocket. I have a premonition I’ll need it today.
When I get to work, I don’t see Piers initially, but I can hear him in his inner office. It’s always just the two of us in the office; our travelling salesmen come in to see him every so often, but other than that it’s a very quiet place to work. No water cooler chatter, no sociable tea breaks. Normally I don’t mind that, but today I wish I just had one other colleague to natter with, to soothe my anxiety.
I listen to the voicemails on the office phone, take down the messages. I’m just replying to emails when Piers emerges from the inner office. His jaw is tense, set.
“I’ll need to speak with you later,” he says, not making eye contact. “Come to my office at five.”
Of course, Mr Bichard,” I reply, trying to sound professional. My mouth feels like someone’s filled it with cotton wool.
I spent the rest of the day dutifully working. Keeping my hands busy, keeping my mind busy. Piers never comes out to speak to me again, which is unusual. On other days, he would regularly come and stand at my shoulder, dictate an email for me to write or tell me what to charge on an invoice. His absence and radio silence make me progressively more and more anxious.
At five to five I stand, tuck my hand into my coat pocket and rub my Algiz rune stone for good luck. Then I go to his office like a prisoner walking to the gallows.
When I knock on his door, he calls out ‘Come in’ in an inscrutable tone. I open the door, and he tells me to come and sit at his desk. When I start to walk towards him, he scolds me. ‘Close the door!’ he says, and I apologise dumbly and do as he says.
Sitting at his desk, I see that the wedding photo of him and his wife in its gilt frame is angled slightly towards me. Him, vulpine and handsome, smiling into the camera. His wife, raven-haired and stunning, looking incandescent in white ivory satin.
“Ms. Hart,” he says, tearing me from my reverie. “I’m afraid I’ve heard some upsetting accusations about you.”
I say nothing.
“One of my clients says he saw you on Saturday night,” he continues. “You were working in a club. As a stripper. Do you deny these claims?”
“No,” I reply, after a moment’s hesitation. I’d considered lying, but I couldn’t lie to him. Couldn’t bring myself to do it.
He leans back in his winged brown leather chair and studies me.
“This is a problem,” he says, lacing his fingers across his chest. I flush with shame, but I feel a frisson of injustice, too. I have no one. No family support, no partner. I support myself. I’m independent and self-sufficient, and stripping allows me to be so.
“Emilia, some of our clients are conservative people,” he continues. “You are the face of my business; you represent us. I can’t afford for you to represent us in a negative manner.”
He leans forward, his fingers making a temple on the desk.
“You have to choose. Keep your job here, or continue working in that… club.”
Both my thoughts and my heart are racing. I can’t really afford to lose either job, but here I am. This one, at least, comes with some societal acceptability, paid holiday leave, a pension plan. My heart breaks a little, but I know what I have to say.
“I’ll quit the club,” I reply.
“Good girl,” he says to me, and his face breaks into that vulpine smile once more.
I tried to stay away from the club, I really did. I made it work for a while on my PA salary alone. I got my rent, bills and car paid for just fine; it was the little luxuries I missed out on. No makeup splurges, no takeaway coffees. I didn’t need those things, but it wasn’t much fun to live without them, either.
Growing up, I had nothing. My mum was young, artistic, alcoholic, and wholly unequipped to take care of a child. I knew she loved me in her own way, but love didn’t buy me proper school uniform or make my packed lunch. She didn’t know who my biological dad was, and she herself was estranged from her overbearing boomer parents, so there wasn’t much in the way of familial support. I was taken into Care at fifteen, then independent living at eighteen. That first apartment, in a building for disadvantaged teens, it meant everything to me. It was shit; the water ran hot and cold erratically and the fire alarms were going off constantly (kids ignored the rules and smoked inside all the time). But it was mine. When I closed the front door behind me on my first night, I experienced the pleasure of being alone and independent for the first time in my life. I could keep that flat as neat and orderly as I wanted, with no one else coming along and messing it up behind me.
I found stripping at nineteen. I was at college, trying to catch up on the GCSEs I’d missed out on due to my turbulent home life. For a girl of my background and social status, it was just about the most meritocratic yet high-paying job I could have done. Outside of a quick audition (which was more of an informal chat with the manager, which culminated with her asking ‘Ok, when can you start?’) I walked straight in without having to fulfil any sort of illogical interview criteria.
I never got into it for the lifestyle; I always approached it as a business. I started stacking money pretty quickly. As a Care-leaver, my accommodation and bills were subsidised by the government, so I saved all of my money, squirrelling it away for the future. Eventually, I saved enough to move out, into my own, first proper adult flat, and buy my beloved Mini. Stripping changed my life.
But Piers didn’t want me to do it alongside my PA gig, so I didn’t do it. That was until said beloved Mini needed urgent work doing, which would cost hundreds of pounds, and I didn’t have the cash to put towards it. I started to feel the club calling to me again, whispering to me to ‘Try it again, he doesn’t have to find out’.
So trying it was what I was doing. I was back at the club, and I was killing it. Thus far I’d done back-to-back dances. I left the VIP Room in my little turquoise bra and g-string and my perspex stripper heels, hugged my customer goodbye and let my face fall out of my saccharine ‘customer service’ smile as I turned away from him. I turned my head to scan the bar, to target my next victim, and that’s when I saw him. Piers. My blood ran cold.
He was stood at the bar, gently swirling a dark whiskey in his hand, looking at me with a fixed stare. My heart was pounding, fearful of what was to come next. He beckoned me over, so I went.
“Hi-,” I began, but he cut me off.
“How much to book you out ’til the end of the night?” he asked. I stared at him dumbly for a moment; this was the last thing I had expected to come out of his mouth.
I did a quick calculation in my head. “An hours’ VIP is two hundred and twenty pounds, so…” I started.
“I’ll pay it,” he interrupted, retrieving his brown leather wallet from his pocket and starting to count fifties into my hand. ‘Let’s go,” he told me, once he’d given me the right amount.
I walked him to the VIP Room, suddenly hyper-conscious of how much ass cheek my little thong exposed. I could feel his eyes on my body as he walked behind me. This was absolutely the most skin I had ever exposed in front of him.
When we got into the VIP Room, I pulled the curtain closed behind us.
“I don’t want you to talk to me,” he said. “Just dance.”
I began my usual routine, the one I had performed hundreds, perhaps thousands of times. Cheekily pull down my bra strap, whip my knickers into the corner of the room, rub my hands over my tits right in front of his face. Unlike every single over time I’d done it, though, this time felt completely different. It felt insanely intimate. Here I was, getting naked for a man who I had spent every weekday with for the past year. A man who had heretofore only ever seen me in a pencil skirt and blouse. A man who knew I ate an avocado salad every day for lunch, and that I took my tea with one sugar.
He watched me, his eyes dark, his expression unmoving. He drank me in, every inch of my skin, and something curious started to happen. Despite what I’m sure my customers would like to think, I never got turned on in private dances. Typically, my mind would be focused on not forgetting when my next stage show was, or whether or not to go through the drive-thru on my way home.
This time, though, I started to feel myself getting wet. At first, I feared I might be unexpectedly starting my period. I surreptitiously swiped my hand down there, and then I realised. It was not my time of the month. This situation was turning me on, and my pussy was soaking wet.
Piers’ eyes bore into me, and I just kept on dancing.
Monday 25th June 2012
8.55am
Bichard Building Supplies
On Monday morning I arrive to the office expecting to find a notice of dismissal on my desk, but Piers is acting so bizarrely. It’s almost like he’s pretending nothing happened; he doesn’t allude to our time in the VIP Room at all. I feel strangely shy, finding it faintly unbelievable that my boss has seen me naked, but it doesn’t seem to be bothering him at all. He only emerges from his office a few times during the day to fire instructions off at me, but other than that I barely see him. At five to five, however, the phone rings. When I pick it up, it’s him.
“Emilia, I’d like you to come to my office before you leave for the day,” he says.
“Yes, Mr Bichard,” I reply, and obediently I walk down the corridor. When I arrive in his doorway, he looks up from the papers on his desk.
“Come in and close the door behind you,” he says, firmly. I do as he instructs, my heart racing.
“Sit down,” he says, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. I sit.
“As my employee, you have a duty to inform me of your diagnosis,” he says to me. This takes me aback; it’s not what I expected him to say.
“My di… I’m sorry?” I say, stumbling over my words.
“Your diagnosis of amnesia,” he replies shortly.
Realisation kicks in. “I don’t have amnesia,” I say, softly.
“Oh, so you do remember our conversation in which you agreed not to work in a strip club any more?” he says sardonically.
“Yes,” I reply, in a tiny voice.
“And yet you chose to continue working there, disregarding the wishes of your employer?”
“Yes,” I say again.
He leans back in his chair, examines me with an unreadable expression on his face.
“What is it that made you so disobedient?” he asks me. When I don’t answer, he speaks again. “I think I know…”
He quietly gets up from his seat, walks around to my side of the table, stands behind me. I’m tense, unsure of what will happen next.
“I think you weren’t raised well,” he says. He puts a gentle hand around my chin, pulls my head back to look at him. “I think you never got enough discipline. You don’t know wrong from right.”
I gaze up at him, uncertain on what he wants from me.
“Well, due to your disobedience, you have a choice,” he says. “You can find another job… or you can allow me to discipline as you should have been disciplined all along.”
I swallow. “Discipline,” I say, in a hushed voice.
“What’s that? I can’t hear you…”
“Discipline,” I say, a touch louder this time.
He gives me an inscrutable smile.
“Very well,” he says. “Stand up and bend over this desk.”
I do as he says, my black pencil skirt stretched over my ass where my body’s at a right angle to the table. He puts a gentle hand out, cups my ass. I jump slightly. I don’t think he’s ever touched me before, perhaps save for a handshake at my interview. Contact with him makes me skin flush.
“I’m going to spank you five times, and I want you to count each spank,” he says, and then he gives my ass an almighty smack with no warning. I moan, then count one.
Smack… two. Smack… three. Smack… four. Smack… five.
By the time he is finished my skin is burning. My ass cheek feels like it’s on fire. He has impeccable aim; he hit the exact same spot every time.
“Pull up your skirt,” he says, gruffly. I do as he says. His cool, thin fingers feel the spot where my skin is red. Then his fingers pull aside my tiny g string and test my wet pussy.
“You naughty girl,” he says. “You liked that, didn’t you?”
I give a tiny moan of assent. I hear him pull something with a crinkly wrapper from his pocket and open it up, then I hear him unzip his fly. I turn round to see him unrolling a condom onto his smooth, beautiful cock.
“Turn around,” he says. I turn back. I’m face to face with his exquisite wedding picture on his desk. I look at a younger him on his wedding day as the modern-day version of him slides his cock slowly inside of me. I moan again.
He starts fucking me slowly from behind. He’s still wearing his shirt and suit trousers, which turns me on more. I feel flattered that he was so eager to fuck me that he couldn’t even wait to undress; plus, being naked from the waist down while he is fully clothed makes me feel erotically vulnerable.
He’s moaning while he’s fucking me, and I’m still looking at his wedding picture, wondering if his wife ever dreamed that one day he’d fuck another girl in front of it. All of a sudden, his hand reaches out and slams the picture face down, so we can no longer see it. I put my head down on the desk and it doesn’t take me long to cum from his dick inside me.
Finally, he cums, too, groaning loudly. It lasts for a long time; I wonder idly if he doesn’t have sex with his wife much.
“Stay in this position,” he tells me, and then he pulls out, whips the condom off and ties an efficient knot in it. I watch him go to throw it in the office bin, then think again; best not to leave evidence for the cleaners. He grabs a sheet of printer paper and crumples the condom inside it, tight, then throws it away.
“Ok, you can straighten up,” he instructs me. “Pull down your skirt.”
I do as he tells me to. He stands before me, takes my chin and kisses me. It’s our first kiss, and it feels magical.
“Do you feel effectively disciplined?” he asks me, when he pulls away.
“Yes,” I say, looking up at him, nodding.
“Good,” he says. “Come on then, Ms Hart; let’s go home.”
We walk out of the office at a professional distance from each other, but in the empty lift he fondles my ass cheek inside my form-fitting skirt. When the lift doors spring open, he wrenches his hand away like he was touching burning hot coals.
“Well, I will see you tomorrow morning, Ms Hart,” he says, as we start to make our separate ways to our cars. As I’m walking to my little Mini Cooper, he calls after me. “Oh, and Emilia?”
“Yes?” I call back.
“Don’t forget I have a meeting with Mr Owens first thing tomorrow,” he says.
“Yes, Mr Bichard,” I say, and I watch him climb into his bottle green Jaguar. I get into my Mini and fling my handbag into the passenger side seat. Then I start to laugh, disbelievingly. I can’t quite fathom what’s just happened.
I pull down the sun visor and assess myself in the mirror. My skin is clear, my slightly flushed cheeks pretty. My lips look full and firm as always. I blow myself a kiss in the mirror, and then I start the engine and begin the drive home.
Monday 25th June 2012
5.57pm
The Stables (Bichard/Bell residence)
It didn’t take him long to get home. For a while, unwilling to go in and face his wife, he sat in his car in the driveway of his home, a stunning grey stone mansion lit from the outside with an exquisite golden light. No one knew why it was called The Stables; they were nowhere near the countryside, and there was no evidence that horses had ever been reared even remotely close to the gated estate they lived on. In all likelihood, the property developers had named it that thinking it sounded upper-class and aspirational. Nevertheless, he loved that house. Four bedrooms, two ensuite. Enormous kitchen-diner. Basement swimming pool. Beautiful home, ugly marriage.
As he sat in the drivers’ seat, he suddenly realised there were white splotches around the fly of his trousers. Emilia had cum all over him. He felt stupidly flattered, but he also felt nervous. He needed to clean it off lest Aoife see it. He grabbed a bottle of Perrier from the cupholder and dripped it over his crotch, scrubbing. When he finished, the stains had practically vanished. Aoife never looked hard enough at him to notice anyway.
When he walked inside, Aoife was at the kitchen table, working on her laptop.
“Hi,” he said to her.
“Hi,” she replied shortly. She didn’t glance up.
“Good day?” Piers asked her, feeling uncommonly buoyant.
“Look, I’ve got a lot of work to do, Piers,” she snapped. “I don’t have time right now for a conversation.”
Pissed off, he walked to their giant, double-wide fridge, pulling out a tub of Thai food their housekeeper, Than, had made. Grabbing some chopsticks from a drawer, he made his way upstairs to his office and locked the door behind him, ready to resume his new favourite hobby; searching for Emilia’s social media. Uncommonly for a girl of her age, she didn’t seem to broadcast her life online like the rest of her generation did. He thought he’d found her, once, but it turned out to be an abandoned social page from when she was at college. He’d flicked briefly through the pictures, chuckling at her cute young face and her goofy expressions, but he’d tired of it quickly. He wanted to see the life of Emilia the woman, not Emilia the girl.
Sucking up noodles, he combed through page after page of Emillias on Instagram. Emilia was not a particularly common name; he felt he was sure to find her at some point. But redheads, brunettes, blondes and raven-haired girls flashed in front of his eyes and not one of them had the unique charm and essence of his Emilia. Defeated, he deleted his internet history and went to shower in his stunning wet room with its heated stone floors. He’d try again tomorrow.
From that point forward, it’s like a little game we play; the game of us. I’d telephone Piers thirty minutes to notify Piers that a client was due to come in to see him within thirty minutes, and we’d have quick, urgent sex in his office. Then I’d go out to greet the client when they arrived, the client none-the-wiser as to why I was slightly out of breath. Either that, or Piers would instruct me to come to his office when he was about to do a conference call, and I would get on my knees and suck his dick as he negotiated a larger sum for providing someone with fifteen feet of marble tile.
He started to buy me presents, too. He’d come into the office carrying boxes of stunning La Perla lingerie, then he’d text me instructions the next morning;
‘Wear the dark blue silk under your clothes today, with stockings.’
He’d surprise me with Fortnum and Mason pink champagne truffles, or my favourite Dior perfume. I loved the idea that he was using the money he shared with his wife to treat me. I wondered to myself how he managed to hide the purchases. Perhaps he took money out of the cashpoint, a little here, a little there, and then paid for my presents in cash. However, he does it, it turned me on. Being his little secret made me wet.
One very ordinary Monday, I’m quietly working at my desk when the front door opens. This is unusual, to have a caller with no prior appointment. When I look up, I see a tall, gorgeous woman with sharp-cut raven hair and celtic green eyes. She appraises me coolly.
“I’m here to see my husband,” she says, in a cut-glass accent.
“Of course,” I say with a smile. “I’ll call him now.”
When I get through to him, he tells me to come into his office. I know what that is code for. I beam at her.
“He’ll be able to see you soon; he just needs to speak to me first quickly,” I tell her. “Important work matters. Would you like a coffee? We have an espresso machine.”
“No,” she says, and she sits on one of the outer sanctum chairs, turning her attention to brushing non-existent lint off of her Gucci handbag.
Nice manners, I think. Did they teach you those in finishing school?
I go to his office and lock the door behind me. I go to sit in his lap, but he gently pushes me back onto his desk. He props me in front of him, with one leg either side on his chair arms and my skirt pushed up. He pushes my thong to the side and starts licking my clit in gorgeous, slow circles. His fingers tease me for a minute, then he pushes them inside me. I feel my orgasm start to build in slow, steady waves. When I eventually cum, I bite down on my fingers so his wife won’t hear me. Piers chuckles as I fall into his arms, depleted.
“You can send my wife in now,” he says. When I go out to usher her into his office, she looks pissed.
She stays in his office for a while, and I can hear low-level bickering. The sort of argument rich people probably have when they don’t want you to know they have problems. When she leaves, I watch her cross the car park from my window. I feel strangely fascinated by her. She doesn’t walk; she glides. She glides right into a silver Mercedes and speeds off.
I don’t know what’s happening in their marriage, and frankly I don’t much care. She’s the type to have grown up with gymkhanas and boarding schools and ‘family estates’. If they divorced, she’d bounce right back. Before long she’d find another husband, probably named Jasper. She’d get another inheritance and a diamond ring the size of a walnut.
Me, on the other hand… this is my shot. I didn’t grow up with wealth. I don’t have family money I can fall back on if this all goes to shit. I have one weapon in my arsenal, and that’s my sexuality. I plan to use it.
Tuesday 10th July 2012
10.21am
Johansen Bell Communications
“We need to get the investors on board with the expansion of the Manchester office,” Annika said, tapping her pen on her pad of paper. The noise was irritating. Aoife wished she would stop.
“God, yeah, that’s another thing to add to the list,” Aoife replied, shaking her head, scribbling herself a reminder. She was in her daily morning meeting with Annika Johansen, her business partner. Annika was Swedish, a plain but exceptionally well-dressed woman, with straight blonde hair down to the middle of her back.
“I’ll get on the phone with Richard today,” Annika said, as they rose from their seats.
“Thanks, Anni,” Aoife said over her shoulder, as she walked into her own office and closed the door behind her. She sat at her desk and leant her chin on her hand, looking at the wedding picture of her and Piers in its silver frame on her desk. They looked like babies in that picture, she realised. She’d never noticed that before.
They’d had another fight last night, over something so petty she struggled to recall it now. They were both exhausted from the pressures of running their own businesses, prone to snapping over the slightest thing.
She’d been the first to start a business, despite the fact that it had always been his dream. She and Annika had set up shop in the early 2000s, and they’d held steady even after the crash of 2008. She’d always been proud of that.
Now, the firm was blossoming, the recipient of several awards. She’d never say this to his face, but she secretly felt Piers was savagely jealous of her success.
It didn’t work, for both of them to have businesses. The stress was too much; their marriage was disintegrating. She’d toyed with the idea of selling her half of the firm and focusing her attention on her home life, but why should she? She’d started her business first. If anyone should quit, it was him.
And so they were in purgatory, neither of them willing to give in first and admit that things needed to change. They weren’t willing to change individually, so how would either of them be willing to put the hard work and save the marriage? It seemed as though they could only proceed in the stasis they found themselves in.
She looked to the glass shelf on her wall, the one that held half of Johansen Bell’s industry awards. They made her feel happy. Awards couldn’t keep you warm at night, but perhaps that didn’t matter. They were proof that outside of her marriage, her life was a success… and that was good enough for her.
Friday 27th July 2012
7.11pm
Bamber House Restaurant
The waiter is pouring us each a glass of vintage white, a pristine towel folded over his arm. Piers takes a sip of the wine and gives the waiter a curt nod of approval. The waiter smiles, bows his head slightly and moves away. Piers lifts his glass towards me.
“To us,” he says, and I ‘cheers’ him with my glass, smiling. As I sip my wine (which is delicious and cool), I turn the word ‘us’ over in my mind. Piers obviously chose it for a reason; he could have really toasted to anything. But the word ‘us’ suggests a closeness, the forming of a unit. Is that how he sees this; that we are forming an ‘us’. Or does he still go out to dinner with his wife and toast to ‘us’ with her? I try to put this thought out of my mind.
We’ve gone to dinner well outside of the city, somewhere it’s unlikely he’ll run into any of his friends or acquaintances. Still, the restaurant is exquisite; his choice. The lighting is muted, candlesticks glowing on every table. There is gentle chatter, the murmuring tones of the upper class who know just how to behave in an establishment like this one. I’m definitely the youngest woman in here; when we arrived, the eyes of the male diners swivelled subtly towards me. I’m wearing a high-neck, backless black sheath dress with a pair of Helmut Lang heels. The heels were a gift from Piers. I slip my foot out of one now and slip in inside Piers’ trouser leg, gently stroke his ankle. He smiles at me over his wine glass.
“Have you decided what you want?” he asks me.
“The beef looks good,” I say, perusing the creamy paper of the menu.
“The beef is excellent here,” he replies. He calls the waiter over and orders for both of us.
“You look gorgeous tonight, darling,” he says. “It’s nice to have the date that every other man envies.”
I giggle softly, pleased by this. “You like my dress?” I say.
“It’s a good one… you suit black,” he replies. “I wonder if we ought to incorporate more black into your wardrobe.”
He seems to ponder on something for a moment.
“I’d introduce you to my personal shopper, but unfortunately she knows my wife,” he says, with just the tiniest edge in his voice when he says the final two words. “That could be something we could do together sometime, though, find another personal shopper and give you a good long session with her. You could buy whatever you want, naturally.”
I feel flushed. I can tell if it’s from happiness, from the wine, or a bit of both. “I’d love that,” I say, and I reach out and put my hand in his. It looks small and dainty in comparison.
“I love your hands,” he says, turning it over and examining it. I do have good hands; slim, tapered fingers ending in beautifully healthy nails. Several people have told me I should look into hand modelling, but I’ve just never had the time. He laces his fingers into mine and looks at my manicure, a discreet but pretty French nail. “Everything about you is just perfectly made, isn’t it? I don’t understand how someone can turn out so flawless.”
I feel absurdly happy. Our food arrives; he’s right, the beef is amazing, it just falls off the bone. We’re rushing eating, though, and we skip dessert. I know what we’re both thinking. We’re horny, ready to get to the good bit. He can have me for dessert.
He pays, leaving a sizeable tip for the waiter, and we take off into the night. The countryside is dark, lush, verdant and mysterious in the glow of his headlights. He drives for a while, looking out for a suitable place. We find a small car park to the side of the road, shrouded by trees. There’s no one else here. We pull off.
“Get out and go around to the bonnet,” he tells me, as he turns off the engine of his car. It gives a slight hiss as it shuts down.
I walk around to the front of the car.
“Bend over it,” he instructs me, and I do what I’m told. He gropes at my knees, pulls my skirt up above my waist. My bare ass is exposed to the cold; I purposefully didn’t wear knickers.
“You naughty girl,” he says in a low, approving growl, giving my bare ass cheek a little spank. He slides his cock out of his trousers and inside of me. I moan as he pushes it in as deep as he can.
All of a sudden another car pulls up opposite, facing towards us, lighting the two of us up in the glow of its headlights. In the brightness I can’t make out a thing about the driver. I look back at Piers, waiting for his reaction.
“Fuck it, let them watch,” he says, and he starts pounding my pussy beneath the stare of the anonymous driver. We’re in the middle of nowhere; I let loose with my moans, confident I’m not disturbing anyone. I put my hand between my legs, rub my clit vigorously, make myself cum on his cock. I feel good about putting on a show for the unknown driver. I imagine they’re enjoying it; what’s not to enjoy about Piers and I?
After a while Piers pulls out.
“Turn around, down on your knees,” he gasps, the universal gasp of a man on the verge of an orgasm. I do as he says and he puts a gentle hand beneath my chin, gripping it as he unloads a mouthful of warm cum onto my tongue. I swallow it down, then stick my tongue out to show him it’s all gone.
“Good girl,” he says. The car opposite us starts up its engine, does a 180° turn and drives away, leaving the two of us behind in the moonlight. Piers and I look at each other and laugh, exhilarated and incredulous. We’re still laughing as he drives me home.
Aoife didn’t really know how she’d ended up here. Piers was out for the night (work drinks with clients) and at some point she’d grown tired of shitty Friday night TV. She’d shut off the television with a decisiveness that surprised herself, and then somehow she’d found herself in her walk-in wardrobe. She’d pulled on a liquid silk blouse, black patent leggings and killer black stilettos, then admired her ass in the full-length mirror. Not bad for forty. Thank god she hadn’t had any kids. She’d have ruined her figure.
She’d called a cab, naming the first bar she could think of that wouldn’t be teeming with eighteen year olds. Capote’s had an upscale clientele of mostly middle-aged professionals. Aoife was the only lone drinker. She sat at the bar nursing a Sancerre, feeling slightly self-conscious. Before long she was attracting glances from a handsome, red-headed forty-something. He peeled himself away from the group he was with, made his way over and nodded at her near-empty glass.
“Need a top-up?” he said, a wry smile playing on his face.
“Please,” she replied.
He ordered the same again for her, and an Old Fashioned for himself. When they got their drinks he turned to her.
“So, what brings you here tonight?” he asked.
“Ant and Dec,” she quipped.
“Nothing good on TV?” he replied. She felt pleased that he’d gotten her joke.
“Absolutely nothing,” she replied. She nodded towards the group he’d just left. “Work do?”
“Unfortunately so,” he said. He gave the ice cubes in his glass a small shake. “So, what’s an attractive woman like you doing alone in a wine bar? No fella?”
She was glad he’d gotten straight to the point. “Not right now,” she said. She carefully slipped her wedding ring off of her finger and dropped it into her clutch bag. He didn’t notice.
Friday 24th August 2012
5.26pm
Bichard’s Building Supplies
“Ready to go?” Piers says, and Emilia looks up from her desk and smiles. He’s going to her flat for the first time ever this evening. She had taken a taxi into work this morning, so that they could travel home in the same car, and Piers has told Aoife that he’s going for evening drinks with a client. The coast is clear for them.
They jump into his Jaguar and make their way back to Emilia’s flat. It’s small, with kitschy decor. A neon sign over the fireplace which reads ‘Girls Girls Girls’ in pink cursive. A retro record player in the corner. Two pink velvet pouffes. When he compares the size of this place to his own gargantuan home, Piers suffers a moment of uncharacteristic guilt. When he thinks about it, he doesn’t pay her much to be his PA. The business could afford to pay her more, and for how good she was at the role she probably deserved it.
‘That’s capitalism, though,’ he tells himself. Low-skilled work earns someone a low wage, that’s just the way it is. It’s the way the world goes round.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” Emilia says, with a tantalising smile, and she disappears into her bedroom. Piers checks his phone; one text, from Aoife.
‘What time are you getting home?’
Piers turns off his phone and chucks it on Emilia’s coffee table, just as Emilia emerges from her bedroom again. She’s wearing black lingerie, a suspender belt and sheer stockings.
“Fucking hell,” Piers says, with a wolfish grin. Emilia smiles back, walking towards him in her black stilettos. Piers pulls her towards him and kisses her, urgently, his hands moving all over her body, cupping one ass cheek while the other hand snakes up to her hair. He suddenly seizes a handful of it, hard, and tilts her head back. She gasps.
“Get down on your knees,” Piers orders. She does as he says.
He pulls his cock out of his trousers and puts it in her mouth, then he pushes the back of her head and makes her deep throat it. There’s a gorgeous moment where his dick slips from her mouth right into the warm, wet depths of back of her throat. She starts to gag on it, and he relents only for a moment to let her breathe… then he puts it back in and starts face fucking her again. Her eyes start to water, her mascara running, and she looks up at him with an expression of worshipful lust as he continues to slide his dick back and forth across her tongue. He starts to feel his orgasm building up, and he finally unleashes all of his cum at the back of her throat. He groans as it pumps out of him, then pulls his dick out and taps it on the tip of her tongue. She looks up at him, slightly confused.
“Did you cum?” she says.
He laughs, pleased.
“I did. You didn’t taste it?”
“No, it must have gone straight down the back of my throat,” she giggles.
“I like that,” he says, and he pulls her up by one hand and gives her a big kiss on the lips. He puts out one hand, cups her tit with one hand and squeezes it, hard.
“Go and make me a drink, darling,” he says. “Something alcoholic.”
She walks obediently to her kitchen. He picks up his phone, turns it on and texts Aoife.
‘Won’t be coming home tonight, one of the guys offered to host me at his. Can’t turn it down without risking a sale.’
He turns his phone off again, walks to Emilia’s bedroom, strips to his boxers, and lays back on her bed. His dick is growing hard again, in the anticipation of a long night of fucking her lithe little body.
Friday 7th September 2012
6.39pm
Charton Manor Hotel
“Would you like me to carry your bag?” the concierge says, and I nod at him and smile. Piers and I have come to Charton Manor Hotel for the weekend of my birthday; far, far from our city, far from running into anyone either of us might know. Just the two of us, together, alone, for two days straight. I can’t wait.
We get into the lift and I catch sight of the two of us in the mirrored wall. We’re a good looking couple. Piers is in a light blue shirt, with his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned forearms, and straight dark blue trousers. I’m in a ruffled, floral minidress, showing plenty of leg, and raffia wedge pumps. My hair is in gentle waves and my toenails are painted bubblegum pink. Considering it’s September, it’s still warm and summery today; perfect conditions for the trip.
The concierge shows us into our suite, and discreetly makes his leave. Piers locks the door behind him, and immediately strips down to his white Calvins. He unbuttons the front of my dress and peels off my pale pink bra and g string.
“On the bed, on your hands and knees,” he says. “Let me see it.”
The ‘it’ is the pink gemstone butt plug he bought me for this weekend, which he insisted I wear for the entire journey out here. We drove in his Jag, roof down, the sun kissing my skin, and I squirmed with the plug inside me. I felt it with every movement I made.
Piers stands over me, pulling my ass cheeks apart gently, examining the plug.
“How did it feel wearing it for the journey?” he asks.
“Weird,” I say truthfully, with a little laugh.
He pulls down his boxers, gives my ass cheek a little tap with his erect penis.
“Well, you did very well,” he says, and he slides his dick inside my pussy. I feel it rub up against the plug in the other hole. He starts fucking me gently.
“The plug was to get you prepared for me to fuck you in the arse,” he says, and I give a tiny moan. “I think you’re ready now. I want to be able to use every hole.”
He pulls his dick out, then gently eases the plug out of my asshole. I hear him squirt some lube on his cock, then he starts to insert it, oh-so-slowly, into my ass.
“Can you handle all of it?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I moan, and he pushes inside of me until every inch of him fills up my asshole. He groans with pleasure.
“Wow, you are perfect,” he says, and he starts slowly fucking me. “Are you happy that I can use all your holes now?”
“Yes,” I breathe.
“Yes what?” he replies.
“Yes sir,” I say.
“I want you to be amenable to me using any hole, whenever I want to, from now on,” he says, as he continues to fuck me, his rhythm building, growing faster.
“I will,” I moan.
“How does it feel, having me fuck that tight little arsehole?” he asks me.
“Good,” I moan.
He hands me one of my little sex toys, a small wand that vibrates.
“Use this against your clit, baby, I want to hear you cum,” he says. I do as he says.
I start feeling my climax building. The feeling of his dick in my ass, so uncomfortable and strange yet so pleasurable. The vibration on my clit. I catch sight of him in the bedroom mirror, standing over me, his flat brown stomach, his abs, the way his handsome face is looking down at me with achingly pleasured concentration. I feel my orgasm build and I cum, crying out as loud as I like.
It must turn him on, to hear me cum loudly like this, because he climaxes too, shooting a great warm load up inside my ass. I wait until he’s finished thrusting, massaging all of the cum out of his cock. He falls onto his back on the bed beside me, stark naked. I lean over, resting on my elbows, and kiss him happily on the mouth.
“That was great,” he says.
“Yeah,” I agree, and I go to the shower to let all of the cum run out of me and down the drain. When I come out, he’s fixing us a drink from the minibar; coke in glass bottles, a little rum, straight into a couple of tumblers. The suite is beautiful; we have a bedroom, a living room, and even an outside deck with a hot tub built into it.
“Get into that bikini I bought you and let’s christen the jacuzzi,” Piers says. He bought me a lot of things for my birthday, one of which is a tiny peach g string bikini with tie-sides. I pull it on, admiring how cute it makes my figure look in the mirror, and then I sweep my hair up into a messy topknot. Walking out onto the deck, I note with relief that it’s not overlooked by any other suites.
“Lie down, darling, let me do your suncream for you,” Piers says, gesturing to the cream-coloured padded deck chair.
I lie on my front, and he meticulously applies suncream to my ankles, my legs, lingering on the globe of each ass cheek, rubbing the cream in and giving my ass little spanks as though he’s enjoying watching it jiggle. Then he massages it into my back, his big warm hands working out the kinks in my muscles, too. My head is laying on my arms. I moan with pleasure.
“That feels so good,” I say.
He gives my ass a little spank. “Turn over, let’s do your front.”
He does the same to the front of my body, his hands creeping into the bikini top and rubbing the cream into my boobs, pinching my nipples a little so I giggle and squirm. He tells me to give it fifteen minutes before I get into the pool, to let the suncream sink in. He leaves me with a magazine and my cola, lying on my front, bathing in the warm sun. When he comes back, he gives me ass cheek a little bite.
“Ouch!” I say, giggling.
“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself,” he says with a vampiric smile. “That bikini makes your arse look like a fucking peach.”
He’s wearing dark blue swimming trunks. He steps into the jacuzzi.
“Come on, let’s get in,” he says. I join him. The hot tub is wonderfully warm, the bubbles caressing my skin and the jets massaging my back. He pulls me onto his lap and starts kissing me fiercely, then pulls his hard dick out of his swimming shorts.
“Pull your thong to the side,” he instructs me, and I do so. He slides his cock inside my pussy.
“Ride me,” he says, and I start to bounce up and down on his dick. He grips the sides of my slim waist, taking control of the rhythm he wants me to go at, and his eyes fall on my tits, jiggling in front of him. He slides the fabric of my bikini top to the side, so that I’m exposed, and he starts to caress them, putting each one in his mouth in turn and gently biting my nipples. I moan.
“I want you to make me cum again, baby,” he says, and I start riding him faster, eager to satisfy him. He closes his eyes, leans back, puts his arms out across the sides of the hot tub. I watch his face change as I bounce; his brow starts to furrow, and I know he’s close.
“Let me cum on your face, darling,” he says, and he stands just in time to unleash it all on me as I kneel, looking up at him. He groans as he covers my face in it, then he chuckles.
“Oops,” he says. “Some of it went in the pool.”
I laugh, swallowing a little of his cum as I do so.
“Oh well,” he says. “Fuck it.”
Saturday 8th September 2012
4.41pm
Charton Manor Hotel
We go to the hotel spa the next day, a new renovation that’s cost them ten million to build. It’s stunning. The indoor pool is warm and steamy, the walls dotted with pebbles, so that it feels like the inside of a particularly luxurious cave. I wanted to wear the g string bikini again, but even I know that’s probably not a good idea considering the hotel’s undoubtedly quite conservative clientele. Instead, I wore another of Piers’ presents; a high waisted Malibu pink number that makes my legs look endless.
Piers has gone to try the steam room. I’m laid out on a plush deckchair, sipping from a glass of Prosecco, reading my magazine. A middle-aged man comes and climbs down the ladder into the pool next to me. He flinches as he submerges his calves into the water.
“That’s freezing,” he says to me with a laugh.
I glance over at him. “I know, that’s the coldest pool here, I think. The other one is warmer,” I say, gesturing towards the hydrotherapy pool. A ponytailed woman in a navy swimsuit walks over, shoots me a filthy look and steps in front of the ladder, blocking my view of who I presume to be her husband.
He talked to me first, lady, I think to myself. Anyway, she’s welcome to him. I only have eyes for one man here.
Piers is walking over to me now, handsome and tanned in his black swimming shorts. I love how his stomach chisels into a ‘V’ shape at the bottom. Makes me want to pull the top of his shorts down a little and see where it ends.
“The steam room is great,” he says to me. “It’s completely deserted; I had it to myself.”
I know what that means. I let him lead me to an empty part of the indoor spa, where there’s a sauna, a steam room and a splash pool. We step into the steam room and close the door behind us. The heat is oppressive. It makes you feel like you can’t swallow.
Piers sits on one of the wooden slatted seats and pulls me onto his lap, kissing me. He takes his dick out of his shorts, pulls my bikini bottoms to the side and enters me.
“I’ll keep an eye out,” he says. He’s facing the glass door; I have my back to it. I trust him. I start grinding on him, enjoying the sensation of having him inside of me. He’s gripping hard onto my ass cheeks, giving them little spanks and urging me to go faster. I lean back and showcase my body as I ride him. My hair is dripping with sweat, my chest is mottled with it. I can imagine it looks hot, seeing me wet like this.
“Baby, I’m gonna cum,” he says, and he grips my hips and pushes me down suddenly. “Don’t move.”
He holds me down on him as he gives several final thrusts inside me, then he lets out a groan and I feel him filling me up. The cum is dripping back out of me, bouncing onto the wooden seat below us.
“Oopsie,” I say, giggling. He grins, tucking his cock back into his shorts.
“I’m fucking boiling now,” he says. “Come on, let’s jump into that pool and cool down.”
We dive into the deserted pool beside the steam room and swim around each other, chatting, splashing, playing around. He lifts me up and carries me around, pushing me against the side of the pool and kissing me. I feel ridiculously happy.
After an extremely relaxing day in the spa we go up to our suite to get ready for dinner. I put my hair in a chignon and pull on a low-cut wine-coloured dress. He looks incredible in a slim line white shirt and dark blue tailored trousers. When we get to the dinner table, he toasts me with his champagne glass.
“To your birthday,” he says. “How does it feel being twenty-four?”
“Amazing,” I say, with a beaming smile. “My favourite birthday so far.”
“You’re sweet, darling,” he says. His hand slides under the table and snakes under the hemline of my dress, stroking my upper thigh. We eat scallops for starter and duck for main, then he feeds me spoonfuls of his Tiramisu for dessert, making me giggle.
When we get back to our suite he gently, slowly strips me of my dress, exposing my sheer pink balconette bra and g string. He lays me down on the bed and slides my thong down, then he uses his fingers and tongue to bring me to orgasm. Once I’m satisfied he slides his cock inside me and fucks me in missionary, my legs on his shoulders, then just before he cums he pulls out and sprays it all over my stomach and tits. I playfully dip my finger in the fluid and dab it on my tongue. He laughs.
“Good girl,” he says.
When we go to bed I lay my head on his bare chest and stroke small circles on his skin with my fingertip.
“Being here with you makes me think what it would be like if it was just the two of us, all the time,” I say before I can stop myself. The words tumble out before I can assess how they’ll be received.
He gives a little pause. “I know,” he says finally.
‘I know’. What does that mean? Is it simply a statement of fact? Or is it ‘I know, I wish it was like this all the time, too’?
I regret saying it, but I know I meant it. This weekend has made me yearn for this to be my life, forever. Just me and him, exploring, playing, fucking, having fun. There’s just one thing stopping us, and every time it catches the light on the second finger of his left hand I’m reminded of it.
Sunday 9th September
4.01pm
The Stables
Piers had just arrived home after dropping Emilia off. He felt light, free. He had driven with the roof of his Jag down, enjoying the sensation of the sun spilling over his skin.
Unusually for him, he felt completely sexually satisfied. Emilia was like a living, breathing sex doll; so compliant to his wishes. He hadn’t felt like this for a long time; manly, confident, authoritative. He wished the weekend could have lasted longer.
As he walked through the front door he noted that the house seemed unusually quiet. He couldn’t hear the TV or the radio. No sounds of cooking, or the kettle boiling. He dumped his suitcase and swung a left into their living room. There Aoife sat, curled up on the mink-coloured sofa, a box of Kleenex next to her. Her mascara had run beneath her eyes, giving her an atypically unkempt look. Aoife always looked perfectly put-together, without fail. Even when she had what she called a ‘lazy day’ at home, she would wear soft, tasteful cream loungewear.
“Aoife, what is it?” Piers asked her. He was a little concerned for himself. He thought he had covered his tracks pretty well (paying for the suite with cash, falsifying details of a merchant’s conference he had to attend) but Aoife was, unfortunately, whip-smart. She could have picked up on holes in his story.
“Gran-Gran,” Aoife sobbed, plucking another tissue from the box and holding it to her face. Piers was momentarily confused. Then he realised what she meant. After a long bout of illness, Aoife’s aristocratic grandmother had finally succumbed.
“Oh darling, I’m sorry,” Piers said, putting his arms around her. As she sobbed into his chest, his mind raced. Aoife’s grandmother, the family matriarch. Aoife had been one of her favourite grandchildren (picking favourites was a toxic trait that her family had seemingly never seen the harm in). His wife would surely be in a good position to inherit.
And what an estate to inherit from! Paula had owned several London townhouses, a country manor. Their family nobility dated all the way back to the Normans.
He could expand the business. Maybe Aoife would be gifted the manor, and they would move to the countryside. Perhaps with enough weekend hunts and candlelit dinner parties he could be happy.
Aoife offered him a chance to progress his life beyond his wildest dreams. Amidst the dalliance with Emilia he had forgotten that somehow. She was gorgeous and hot, young and submissive. He loved fucking her. But realistically, what would she have in her bank? A few thousand, ten thousand tops? It wasn’t enough for him to live the life of his dreams. But Aoife?
With Aoife he could build a legacy.
I don’t understand what’s happened. Ever since we got back from our mini break things have changed. Piers has pulled away from me. There are no more invitations to his office, no more little gifts. On the infrequent occasions he speaks to me he is straight-to-the-point and professional. Any innuendo or flirtation has vanished into non-existence.
I’m confused, aghast. It had all been going so well. I go back over the weekend in my head. Was it something I’d done? Had I been too needy, too clingy? I’d always taken pride in my ability to emotionally distance myself from men, to avoid falling for them, but the past weekend I’d allowed myself to be a little more vulnerable, to let my guard down just slightly. I regretted it.
Then I saw it. BBC News, of all places. A think piece, titled ‘The logistics of sharing a multi-million estate amongst a dynasty’. The article was about the Honourable Paula Sherwood, who had passed away, leaving behind a country estate, chic city townhouses, and a net worth of many millions. One of the named recipients? Her granddaughter, Aoife Bell, CEO of the esteemed Public Relations firm Johansen Bell.
I start to put two and two together. Aoife has come into some money, and now Piers is starting to think twice about leaving her. He’s thinking about expanding his business, buying a yacht, maybe a helicopter. There’s just one little inconvenience to rebuilding a happy marriage. Me.
Well, I’m not going to be the hinderance. I’m not going to be the rom com antagonist who needs to be expedited in order for the two main characters to reignite their love. I’m the fucking main character.
A plan is formulating in my mind. If Piers won’t be with me willingly, I’ll have to force his hand. I’ll have to be cunning and ruthless, but those are not foreign concepts to me. I’m ready. I’m the girl who takes action to take control of her life. I will not fade away.
I go to the shelf that holds my rune stones and draw one. I get Thurisaz, the rune of weapons and defence. The rune of war.
Sunday 16th September 2012
6.36pm
The Stables
Aoife loved working out in their home gym. Its large windows overlooked their back garden, which sloped down towards a small stream and backed onto woodland. She pounded the treadmill, steady in her pace, enjoying the feeling of sweating out her feelings. Exercise was much better than sex for the endorphins it created, she’d always felt.
“Aoife, what the fuck is this?” she heard Piers say sharply from behind her. She turned; he was stood in the doorway, holding a piece of A4 aloft. She peered at it. It was the documentation for her grandmother’s Last Will and Testament. Well, he was bound to find out at some point, she told herself.
“You’re talking about my inheritance going into my personal account,” she said. It was a statement, not a question. She already knew the answer.
“Well yes, fucking obviously,” he replied. “Why wouldn’t you put down our joint account details?”
She climbed down from the treadmill and looked him straight in the eyes. She was almost as tall as him, something he’d said he liked when they first met twenty years ago.
“Because it’s my inheritance,” she replied simply. He gripped the paper harder in his fist, crumpling it.
“What kind of a marriage is this?” he said as she brushed by him. She went to the nearest bathroom, plucked a towel from the holder, dabbed her damp chest. “What happened to ‘what’s mine is yours’?”
She remembered what it had been like when they had first met. They’d been the golden couple of Queen’s University. She, the ethereal heiress, possessor of a sophistication the other girls could only envy. He, the aspiring entrepreneur, the boy who could get any girl apart from her… at least at first. When she’d eventually relented to his repeated requests for a date, he’d told her about his parents. They were wealthy, like hers. His father was a surgeon, his mother a beautiful former model. Unlike Aoife’s family, however, they didn’t believe in financially supporting their children beyond the age of eighteen.
‘Well, that doesn’t matter,’ Aoife had told him. ‘I have enough money for the both of us.”
She’d been the tender age of twenty. How she wished she could go back and tell her young self not to be so careless with her words. You never knew how they could come back to you, their meaning warped over time.
“Why would you need to access my inheritance?” Aoife replied. “Our joint account is healthy. Our house is paid off.”
“That’s not the point,” he snapped, throwing the paper down onto the floor in disgust. “Don’t twist this into something it’s not. This is not about the money. It’s about the principle of the thing.”
“It’s my family’s money,” Aoife said simply. “It goes to me.”
“This is absolutely ridiculous,” he said. She watched as he stormed downstairs and grabbed his car keys. She heard the front door slam and his car roar away.
Aoife exhaled, relieved. Frankly, she’d anticipated that the fight would be worse. She fished her phone out of the pocket of her leggings and brought up her online banking app. She looked with reassurance at the number of zeroes that were tacked onto the end of her balance. She was protected now. Whatever happened, she would be ok.
Sunday 16th September 2012
7.07pm
Flat B, Dean Court
He had answered the phone whilst driving, still fuming over he and Aoife’s fight. Emilia had told him she missed him, that she couldn’t stand the distance between them. She’d asked him to come round to her flat.
He didn’t know why he had come. There was no use in rehashing the affair with Emilia. It wouldn’t help him in his cause to win back Aoife. But here he was nonetheless, because Aoife had betrayed him and he felt furious with her. Mainly, though, he felt furious with himself, for allowing all of this to happen to him.
He pressed Emilia’s buzzer and she let him in. Climbing the stairs, he realised she was waiting at her front door. Not just that, though; she was completely naked apart from a pair of sheer stockings. His face contorted into a smile, his mood suddenly and irresistibly lifted.
“Never mind the neighbours, eh?” he said to her. He loved her spontaneity, her devil-may-care attitude. This was what was missing in relationship with Aoife.
He started to kiss her, pushed her back against the wall of her hallway and made to travel down her body towards her waiting pussy. She pulled back, looked down at him.
“No, in the bedroom,” she said, taking his hand and tugging him in the direction she wanted. For the first time, he let her take charge. He was surprised by this change in their dynamic, but not upset. He was vulnerable today. He would let her take the lead, just this once.
She pushed him down onto the bed, pulled his cock out of his trousers and sat on it, facing away from him. She rode him enthusiastically in reverse cowgirl. He watched her ass bounce up and down and he suddenly felt as though he was about to cum. He never usually came this quickly, but Emilia was putting on a hell of a good show. He unleashed it inside of her and watched as it dripped back down onto his crotch from her pussy.
“Wow, you liked that, huh?” she said with a smile as she climbed off him. He smiled back, but he didn’t know quite what to say. He felt confused by what had happened, by the fact that he felt like something had flipped between them, something that would never, ever go back to how it was before.
“I always like it, darling,” he said, kissing her on the lips, but he was zipping up his fly, a little embarrassed.
“Do you want to stay for a drink?” she said. “I’ve got wine.”
“Sure, sweetheart,” he replied. He followed her to the kitchen, feeling like a lapdog at her heels. He took a glass of wine from her and drank a large swig.
Sunday 16th September 2012
9.01pm
Flat B, Dean’s Court
Once Piers had left, I’d gone into my bedroom and changed into a rose-hued silk negligee. retrieving my secret treasure from a shelf of ornaments opposite my bed, I went to sit at my desk. Curling up in the pink velvet shell chair, I picked up her glass of
rosé and took a sip. This was going to be fun.
I couldn’t believe he’d cum so quickly. He must have missed me. He was so silly. He knew he couldn’t live without me, without the sex craze I induce in him. Aoife may have money, but I’m fun. Spontaneous. Sexually adventurous. And at the end of the day, as much as they may protest otherwise, the thing men most cared about was sex. Good sex or bad sex, it could make or break a relationship.
I keyed my password into her computer, sat back and fingered the stem of my wine glass as it powered up. I’m playing with fire, I know that. If you were the mistress and the man pulled away from you, you were supposed to accept your defeat with dignity. You were supposed to understand that ‘true love’ was cyclical, and if ‘your man’ returned to his wife, that was ‘the universe’ healing everything back to the way it should be. You certainly weren’t supposed to be a home wrecker. You were meant to fade into the background. Get back to where you came from.
Well, I’m not going to do that. I’m going to take a risk. If it paid off, it would pay off fabulously. If it all blew up in my face and I lost my job… well, the strip club would still have me. I earned more there than I would earn in any other job, anyway.
Once my internet had loaded up, I logged into my email; my work email, not my personal one. Then I opened up Google and searched Aoife Bell. Time to get the plan in motion.
Aoife had arrived at her office in a thoroughly bad mood. She’d had an early morning meeting with a prominent menswear designer, who’d been apoplectic with rage over the disorganisation of his upcoming Fashion Week show. He’d almost cancelled his contract with Johanssen Bell Communications; Aoife had pulled it back round at the last minute by the skin of her teeth.
Slamming her handbag and Starbucks down on her desk and chucking her damp umbrella aside, she sat with a thud and began to scroll through her email inbox. Junk mail, deleted. Inquiry from an up-and-coming womenswear designer, flagged. Mail from her accountant asking about their expenses this quarter, replied to.
A message caught her eye, one that she’d initially dismissed as spam. There was no subject line, but she recognised the address it had been sent from.
ehart.bichardsupplies
‘E Hart’ must surely be Piers’ secretary. What did she possibly have to be emailing about? With a feeling of slight apprehension she double clicked the message. It contained no text, just a video attachment. She clicked to view it, nausea rising inside of her.
Aoife couldn’t tell what the video was at first; she thought she’d been sent porn. All she could make out was a couple, the girl blonde, the man dark, her on top of him, riding his cock. The secretary must have chosen an easy password for her email and been hacked. Silly bitch.
But then he moved, the man in the video, and there was something so familiar about the it, the languid way he moved his hand to grab the girl’s stocking-clad thigh, and it suddenly dawned on Aoife; this wasn’t amateur porn. She was watching her husband fuck the blonde slut from his office.
Her blood cold, she picked up her phone and called his mobile. He took his time to pick up.
“Aoife, I’m a bit busy right now,” he said, shortly. “My secretary hasn’t come in for God knows what reason, and I’ve a ton of stuff…”
“How long?” she asked, cutting him off.
“How long what?”
“How long have you been fucking the bitch?”
The length of his pause said everything. Finally, he gave a light little laugh.
“Aoife, I’ve no idea what you’re…”
“How… long… have… you… been… fucking… her?!” she raged into the phone, pausing for emphasis after every word. She was glad her office door was closed. “And don’t you dare lie to me again, Piers, because I’ve seen the tape.”
After another pause, he spoke again. “What tape?” he replied. This, at least, seemed genuine.
“You couldn’t stand me being more successful than you, so you decided to fuck a twenty-year-old, is that what it is?” she said, her voice laden with venom. He didn’t reply.
“We’re done,” she said. “You’re moving out. This is over,” she said, surprising herself with the lack of emotion in her voice. She heard muffled noises, as though he was about to hang up on her. “Oh, and, Piers?” she said into the phone.
“What?” he replied, the apprehension palpable in his voice.
“I would talk to her about filming you without your consent,” Aoife said to him, sweetly. “It seems as though it could cause problems for your… reputation.”
He put the phone down on her. The subsequent silence rang in her ears. To her it sounded like freedom.
Monday 17th September 2012
10.10am
Bichard’s Building Supplies
Piers sat for a while, the phone pressed to his ear, then he abruptly slammed it down, reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of Glenfidditch and a diamond-cut tumbler.
So that was it, then. Ten years of marriage ended just like that. He was surprised
by how unemotional he felt.
He poured himself a generous portion of whiskey, took a large swallow and winced. He wished he had ice to put in it.
He sat at his desk for the rest of the day, but he got no work done. He alternated between dialling Emilia’s number on his mobile phone and from the work phone. Rain hammered against his office window.
To think he’d actually been concerned when she hadn’t turned up for work this morning. It was unlike her to be off sick; she’d once come in with a running fever because she couldn’t bear the thought of him fielding calls by himself.
But now this. He couldn’t believe she’d had the nerve to do it. He never thought she’d force his hand like this. In a way, he was impressed. She’d done the dirty work so he didn’t have to.
At five pm exactly he placed the bottle and tumbler carefully back in the drawer, buttoned up his raincoat and left the office into the deluge. Getting into his car, he turned on his windscreen wipers and assessed his options. He thought he could get away with driving, despite the whiskey. It was rush hour, there’d be loads of dickheads on the roads. Plus, the police never stopped men in Jags, did they? They stopped boy racers in souped-up Corsas.
He began to drive, knowing exactly where to go.
Monday 17th September 2012
5.26pm
Flat B, Dean Court
The door buzzer is ringing relentlessly, as though someone has their finger pressed down on it and isn’t letting up. I know who it before I even answer.
Picking up the receiver, the camera flickers on, but the picture is dark, obscured.
“Hello?” I say, cautiously.
“It’s me,” Piers replies, and I realise he has his hand cupped over the camera. “Let me up.”
I buzz him in and wait at the door, listening to his uneven steps as he climbs the stairs. As he draws closer I can see he’s been drinking; his hair is unusually unkempt, his eyes bloodshot.
“You little bitch,” he says darkly, and then he pushes me suddenly back against the hallway wall and starts kissing me. His mouth tastes of liquor. He pulls me into my bedroom and folds me onto my hands and knees on the bed, then he goes to my bedside table drawer. He knows where I keep my sex toys.
He grabs a pair of handcuffs and fastens my wrists behind me, then he gets a mouth gag fixes it in place. I’m secured in position, at the mercy of his urges now.
He grabs a rabbit toy and puts it inside me, pressing the vibrating part close against my clit. He fucks me with it until he hears me get close to cumming, then he pulls it out. After thirty seconds he puts it back in, gets me close to orgasm again, then pulls out once more. He does this several times. Orgasm denial. He’s never done this on me before. I’m soaked with sweat, moaning into the ball gag with the strain of so many disrupted orgasms. My body is in a strange, almost pleasurable agony.
He pushes his cock into my pussy and starts railing me, gripping his hand around my hair and yanking it back. I can feel myself creaming on his cock as I moan into the gag in pleasure and pain.
It doesn’t take him long to cum inside me, filling me up with an unfeasible amount of fluid. He pulls out and swiftly shakes his cock off. Then he sits on the edge of the bed, naked, more vulnerable than I have ever seen him.
“That’s it, then,” he says.
“What?” I say.
“My marriage is over. We can be together,” he replies.
I wish he’d said it with more enthusiasm.
Monday 15th October 2012
10.55am
Bichard’s Building Supplies
Piers sat in his office with his head in his hands. He had a splitting headache. Mediation with Aoife that morning had been a nightmare. Divorce was turning out to be in equal parts complicated and costly. Aiofe seemed determined to fuck him with a broom handle at every turn, and so far she was succeeding.
Not only that, but a cohabiting life with Emilia was expensive. She was a girl with champagne tastes. He had no idea why he had agreed to the penthouse; the place was a money pit. The trouble, really, was that every time she set her little heart on something she sucked his dick, and in the post-orgasm bliss of good head he agreed to whatever she wanted. Every time.
He had to find a way to make more money, and quickly. The business was plodding along, neither a huge earner nor a huge loss-maker. He had to find a way to
expedite the process of securing success.
He looked at his computer screen, at the invoice he was preparing for a client. The client was stupidly wealthy, a millionaire department store developer. If Piers massaged the figures a little, adding a hundred here and a fifty there, would his client even notice? Likely not.
Piers added a couple of ‘zeroes’ in columns they weren’t before, sat back and scrutinised the document. He could do this. If he could make an extra hundred or so from every client, every time, it could all go towards keeping his life afloat. Now that he was divorcing, it was especially important that he keep up appearances. He couldn’t let Aoife know that he couldn’t live a good life without her.
I wake, my naked body warm beneath the midday sun. Piers had woken me and we’d had quick sex before he left for work this morning, but afterwards I’d fallen back into a contented slumber. I don’t have a day job any more, so I can sleep until whatever hour I want.
I rouse myself from the covers and pull back the window drapes, exposing the floor-to-ceiling panel with stunning views across the city. It’s surprisingly warm and sunny for October; an Indian Summer. I stand in the sunshine for a moment, letting it play upon my skin. We live in the penthouse, so I don’t have to worry about nosy neighbours looking in; we’re far above everyone else. I only have the sky to answer to.
I wander into our open-plan kitchen-living area. The twelve-seat dining table sits alongside another floor-to-ceiling glass panel; opposite this, there is a gargantuan marble kitchen island. There’s a huge velvet corner sofa and widescreen TV in the living room, which our private elevator opens straight into.
I open up the fridge. I’m not hungry yet, so I just pluck a ripe cherry from a punnet and nibble on it as I make my way back through the bedroom and into the ensuite. I step into the enormous wet room shower and feel the warm spray trickle down my back.
When I get out of the shower I forgo a towel; I simply walk naked back to the fridge and grab an ice-cold bottle of Coke, which has condensation mottling its glass surface. I pull open the sliding glass door onto the balcony and collapse into one of our creamy soft deck chairs.
I lay in the chair, lazily sipping my drink and observing the hum of the city beyond the glass railing of our balcony, far below me. I have my little pull-string bag of rune stones next to me. I decide to draw one at random, to see if it can give me some indication of what’s next to come in my life. I draw the Fehu stone, associated with wealth and property. I smile at it. I didn’t need a stone to tell me I have that.
I might work at the strip club later, if I can be bothered. Piers likes me working at the club still; it continues to massage his ego that he gets to sleep with a stripper. When I get home from a long night of having dozens of men lust after me, Piers is almost always awake, wanting to fuck me while the pheromones are still dewy on my skin.
I’m not sure if I’ll work tonight, though; that does sound like a lot of effort. For now, I lay in my chair and snap nudes on my phone to send to Piers. Receiving those at work will get him all hot and bothered. There’s a jacuzzi on the balcony; I might take a dip later. I prop myself up on my elbows, crane my head back and look into the sky. It’s a violent blue. Gulls swoop overhead. I’ve found my nirvana. There is nowhere I would rather be than right here.