A Very Personal Assistant

by Portia Da Costa

  “How about showing me your pussy?” He didn’t look at her, but he smiled, how he smiled.

  There weren’t many vehicles about around here, but occasionally they passed the odd one. Miranda realized her alarm must have shown on her face, because Patrick spoke again, almost immediately.

  “Okay, that’s a bit too extreme, for now…. So how about just the tops of those delicious stockings you wear. Mmm, lace…I love it.”

  “How do you know I wear lace-topped hold-ups?”

  He laughed again, a free, happy sound. A little like the way Miranda was starting to feel.

  “A man can sometimes catch a sly glimpse when a lady is reaching for something.” He tapped a finger on the wheel. “And then there’re the couple of spare pairs you keep in the filing cabinet…I’ve dreamed about them.”

  Along with my pussy, and my breasts, it seems.

  She didn’t speak, but she edged the hem of her skirt up her thighs, inch by inch. He’d told her to, after all, and even if a passing motorist got an eyeful, it could be attributed to inadvertent creep of the fabric, not a deliberate act.

  Patrick scored a quick glance, then bit his lip, looking pleased as punch with her.

  Again, they drove on for a while, in companionable yet dynamic silence. Miranda had never felt this excited and needy in her life before, even after hours of diligent foreplay by previous lovers. It was a state of peaceful desperation. High lust, but almost restful, too.

  He’s going to fuck me. And touch me. And do things to me. It’ll make things hellishly complicated and awkward back at work, but I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care!

  * * *

  Eventually, they pulled up in front of a timber-built cottage, the last one in a small row, built alongside a lazy, leafy canal bank. They were clearly holiday homes, but Miranda could see no sign of life in any of them. Maybe they were weekend occupancy, and stood empty in the middle of the working week?

  “It belongs to my gran. She likes to come here for little breaks, and she lends it to anyone in the family who wants a few days peace and quiet,” said Patrick conversationally, nodding toward the blue painted door of the quaint little structure. “No one’s here now, though…it’s all ours. We have total privacy.”

  Total privacy. What did that mean? Miranda shuddered, not afraid, more excited.

  “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

  She nodded, her heart racing as he leapt of the Citroën. Shoving at her skirt, she caught the top of one of her stockings and it slithered down her thigh. She was still hitching at it when the passenger door swung open.

  “Let me…”

  The contact of Patrick’s fingers on her bare skin was like a jolt of sweet energy barreling through her. Kneeling beside the seat, he smoothed the lace up her thigh again, deftly righting it, then slid his hand beneath the hem of her skirt for just a moment, touching the soft hair at her crotch and brushing his thumb over it.

  Miranda moaned. His touch was fleeting, barely there, and yet her clitoris leapt and her sex rippled as if he’d been fondling and fondling her and almost brought her to the point of orgasm. Maybe he had brought her to it, just with words, with his glances, and with his presence.

  And then he was standing up, reaching for her hand, helping her out of the low car and onto her feet. Her bag tumbled to the path and he swooped it up and handed it to her, the perfect personal assistant. It was all completely normal and polite, and yet he’d just touched her sex—well, nearly—and her panties were nestled in his jacket pocket.

  He led her to the cottage and let her in, the soul of courtesy. It was almost the way he was with her at work when he let her in and allowed her to precede him.

  “Well, here we are.” The genial host, he pulled out a chair for her, one of several set around a small kitchen table covered with an old-fashioned wipe-down cover.

  Miranda slid onto the seat, her skirt rising a bit. He was looking at her with that sweet devil-imp smile again, teasing her. Not telling her what to do, yet not exactly subservient.

  “What happens now?” She hung her bag over the back of the chair, still feeling off-kilter. “Do you spank me or fuck me, or what?”

  “We can do either, or both, or neither…. But I really would like to see your pussy now.” Eyes on her all the time, he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over the back of a nearby armchair. “I’ve been wondering what it looks like since I first came to work for you.”

  “Really…it never occurred to me that you were interested,” she lied. Subliminally, it had occurred to her. Subliminally, she’d thought about it all the time. too.

  Patrick took his seat, too, stretching out his long legs in front of him. His pose was elegant and relaxed, one elbow on the table, his other hand resting on his thigh, and yet everything about him suggested quiet power and readiness.

  For what?

  “Of course, I’m interested, Miranda,” he purred, tilting his head on one side. He’d ruffled his hair somewhere along the line, and his blond curls looked even more boyish and angelic. His eyes looked like Lucifer’s, sharp and blue. “But you wouldn’t think much of me as P.A. if I perved you all the time, would you?”

  “I suppose not.” She placed one hand on the table, mirroring his, fingertips just inches away from his.

  “Well, then…now we’re on neutral ground. Why don’t you put me out of my misery and show me the goods?”

  Her heart thudded, leaping in her chest while sweat popped out all over her body. She’d had plenty of sex in her time, even a little kink now and again, but this was different…strange, ridiculously thrilling and forbidden. Feeling as if she wanted to gasp for breath, she hooked the hem of her suit skirt with the fingertips of her right hand and edged it up again. Patrick’s eyes followed every movement, unwaveringly, even though his body was still and quiet. She loved the look of him in his classy waistcoat, with his shirt open at the neck, a tantalizing combination of the formal and the casual. As the edge of her skirt reached her groin, he took in a breath.

  She hesitated. He smiled. She bit her lip. He shook his head, as if despairing of her. In a rough, impatient gesture she hauled up the hem, showing him the triangle of dark hair covering her sex and rumpling her skirt in a bunch at her waist.

  “So now what?” she demanded, edging around a bit on the chair. She felt as if she had an engine running in her sex, creating a build-up of energy. She wanted to make wild movements, do extreme things. The urge to part her legs wide and push her pelvis forward, opening to him, was a rampaging hunger.

  Patrick didn’t speak. He just quirked his blond eyebrows at her, his eyes flicking to her pussy, then to her lips, and then back to her eyes again. His smile widened.

  He’s got me right where he wants me. He doesn’t even have to touch me and he’s driving me crazy.

  “Well?” she persisted. She was worked up, wound up, and wanted action.

  “Feeling horny, are we?” Patrick just stared at her, his fingertip moving in a tiny circle on the smooth, shiny surface of the tablecloth, so close to hers. The action was suggestive beyond belief, and his next words came as no surprise. “Why don’t you masturbate?”

  Her first thought was, I can’t! But she knew she could. She knew she wanted to, desperately. There was nothing she wanted more, other than to have Patrick fuck her, right now, across the table. She glanced at the space between them, and the movement of his long elegant fingers, the slow circles that
incited her to touch herself.

  “All right. I will!”

  Shuffling her legs wider, she thrust her hand between them, diving straight in with two fingers, searching and finding her clit. She’d wanted to put on a show for him, a grand performance, but she couldn’t wait. She couldn’t prevaricate. She needed to come.

  “Oh!”

  The jolt of immediate pleasure took her breath away. Her clit pulsed, fluttered, right on the edge. She backed straight off and began to slick around her folds. Patrick tilted his head on side, as if assessing her performance.

  “You want to come,” he stated, “so why don’t you? Why hold back?”

  “I…I don’t know…. It’s what I usually do—I make it last…well, I try to.”

  Those blue eyes narrowed a little, looked more dangerous.

  “Well, I don’t want you to make it last. I want to see you come now.” Reaching out, he placed his right hand over her left one, on the table, sliding his thumb to her wrist and settling it lightly over the pulse point there.

  It was like being linked to him, blood to blood, the tiny contact as intimate in its own way as cock in cunt. Her heartbeat, and its racing rhythm, cried out to him.

  With another little gasp, she went for her clit and began to rub, fast and hard, working herself without finesse or real accuracy, just pounding away at the sensitive center.

  Barely seconds passed. Her body surged, clenching fiercely on empty air, rippling, grasping for Patrick’s as yet unseen cock, the flesh she so longed for.

  Moaning, she closed her eyes, as she always did, but he cried out, “No! Look into my eyes! Keep it here!” He passed his hand in a circle before his face, like a hypnotist. “Continue! Come again! You can do it!”

  Sinking into a world of blue, of deep, glittering blue, she rotated her fingertip more lightly this time, with more delicacy. Her consciousness was balanced between three points: her clit, his eyes, the touch of his thumb. Silvery messages darted between the three nodes, circling and building up like some arcane power source. Pleasure rose again, buoyed up the circuit, the movement of Patrick’s thumb as arousing as that of her finger, and the light in his eyes more incendiary than both.

  “Come, Miranda, come!”

  Pleasure swelled again, wild and ascending, her sex pulsating as she pitched forward in the hard old chair, breaking the magic triangle as she curved over her own rubbing fingertips. Patrick caught her shoulder with his free hand, supporting her, guiding her head toward his. As she came and came, their foreheads were pressed against one another’s.

  “That’s it baby…that’s it,” he softly chanted, his breath as warm as a zephyr against her cheeks.

  How weird. How odd. I’ve never come like this before….

  The thoughts flitted through her mind as she came back to earth, and finally straightened up, Patrick’s warm hand slipping to the nape of her neck and down her arm as she did so. She withdrew her hand from her crotch, and he clasped it and squeezed it, almost as if he were praising her somehow. And all the time he smiled and his eyes glowed with a strange, magical triumph.

  “Phew! That was really something.” She sounded breathless, even to her own ears, like an innocent after sex for the first time. “And different…not what I was expecting.”

  “What were you expecting?” Patrick drew her hands together, folding both into his own, vaguely like a therapist focusing the attention of his patient. Miranda was aware that her skirt was still around her waist, but it didn’t seem to matter.

  “I…I don’t know…. A fuck, I suppose.”

  “A fuck would be nice,” replied Patrick roundly, his tongue touching the center of his lower lip for a moment, naughty and enticing.

  It would be nice, yes indeed. And suddenly she wanted it furiously. Even despite the orgasms she’d already had. Maybe because of them? Her engine was well and truly primed, and the curiosity that had simmered beneath the surface since she’d first engaged Patrick to work for her rose and bubbled, like water starting to boil.

  “Is there a bed here?” She started to rise, glancing around as she felt her skirt slide on its lining and cover her again. She’d not really taken much notice of their surroundings, she’d been so bewitched by her companion, but now she saw two doors leading off the main kitchen and living area of the cottage. Both stood ajar, and in one she saw the side of what looked like a chest of drawers, and the other revealed the white gleam of an old-fashioned wash basin.

  “There is…if you want it?” On his feet again, he looked, and sounded, strangely devious, as if he were plotting something. Miranda felt irritated. What was up with him? Didn’t he want to fuck her? She glanced down at his crotch, and saw that he did. His erection was prodigious.

  “What do you mean? If I want it?”

  Still holding her hands, he inclined forward, running his mouth, lips slightly parted, over her cheek and her jaw.

  Oh, God, he’s never even kissed me yet.

  As she realized that deficit, it was rectified. Patrick’s lips settled on hers in a strangely chaste kiss, very soft, very tentative, utterly velvety. They moved very lightly, teasing, pressing a little, dragging a little. Then his mouth opened and he gently licked her lips with the tip of his tongue.

  “There’s something else I rather fancied,” he whispered, his breath mingling with hers. “Maybe you’ll indulge me?”

  “Indulge you in what?”

  Patrick’s hands moved to her waist, spanning it. She was decent again now, but bizarrely, she wished she were naked so she could press her bare breasts and crotch against him, grinding against the fine, conservative suiting of his waistcoat and his trousers. Without thinking she let her hands drop to her skirt, ready to raise it again.

  His smile provocative, he said, “Pretend the table is your desk.” He nodded to the shiny surface of the tablecloth. “I’d like to fuck you across it…. It’s my fantasy. Has been since the first day I walked into your office.”

  “But, couldn’t we just have done it there anyway? There’s a lock on my office door you know.”

  “Yes, I do know that…and don’t you think I haven’t imagined you behind it, taking off your clothes to get changed when you’re going out in the evening, straight from work. Putting on sexy underwear for some fortunate guy who gets to fuck you later on?”

  She wanted to tell him that there had been no fortunate guys recently. Nobody of significance since he’d come into her employment.

  “So?” she challenged.

  “No, it’s too complicated, actually fucking in the office. It’d muddle the parameters of our excellent working relationship.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he pressed his warm fingers over it. “Here, we’re on neutral ground. It’s just fantasy. It doesn’t screw up how we act together back there.”

  She wanted to tell him that it might do that very for her, but as if he’d sensed her objections, he squelched them with another kiss. Something a bit more proactive and precocious this time. His tongue pushed into her mouth, licking, exploring, tasting, darting about. Subduing her. He was going to get his own way…across the table, whether it was substituting for her desk or not. She moaned into his mouth as he cupped her buttocks through her skirt.

  “Come on, boss, over you go,” he said eventually when she was about to crumple under the force of her own desire.

  Even though she was still fully dressed apart from her knickers, he manhandled her facedown over the tablecloth, pressing her
across it until her hot cheek was against the cloth, summarily pushing up her skirt.

  Miranda closed her eyes, imagining her pale buttocks displayed to him, rounded and tempting. She had a nice arse, she knew that. She hoped he appreciated it.

  When his warm hands gripped her and began to manipulate her, she knew he did. His palms cupped the rounds of her bottom and moved in slow circles, the rude handling tugging and pulling on her sex. Going with the flow, she moved in sync and with a hitch this way, and hitch the other, she managed to position her clit against the hard edge of the table.

  “Ah, that’s a good girl…work yourself…work it, babe…you can do it.”

  A hot rush of lust sluiced through her. He sounded like the director of a sleazy porno movie, praising his even sleazier star. She circled her hips, gasping at the pleasure it gave her from the friction against her clit and listening to the wicked sound of Patrick’s laughter.

  “And you can do it, too!” she growled after a moment, impatient for him, “Stop shilly-shallying about and fuck me, will you?”

  “Of course, Ms. Austin,” he intoned in his most neutral office voice, and then both of them were laughing, even though Miranda was perilously close to orgasm.

  Which was a miracle, really. Sometimes she didn’t come all that quickly. She hadn’t even stopped to think about that particular phenomenon this afternoon, though. It seemed that with Patrick pleasure was easy, always available.

  His zipper slid down, a tiny sound, but she heard it like a clarion call announcing the main act in a drama. Then rustling. Him rummaging in a pocket. Ah, the sneaky devil had condoms on his person. He’d certainly intended to get lucky, not that she minded. The luckier he got, the luckier she got, too. How could he be anything else but a lover par excellence, given what he could do to her with just his voice and his laughing blue eyes?

  I wonder what your cock looks like, Mr. Paragon of All Good Things?

  Twisting around, looking across the globes of her naked bottom, she checked him out.