The Personal Assistant

"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.