The Personal Assistant

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.