A Very Personal Assistant

by Portia Da Costa

  Bare from the waist up, Miranda experienced an irrational urge to cover herself. Her sense of vulnerability was a sweet taste upon her tongue, a nectar in her blood. Light-headed, she pushed back her shoulders, acting completely on instinct. The nakedness of her breasts was Patrick’s by right, she must offer herself. Not resist, or fight, just be his.

  “You’re very beautiful…very, very beautiful. Those Swiss bastards should have been on their hands and knees, kissing your shoes, and grateful for the chance to humble themselves before you.”

  She laughed. What a thought. Even in the midst of sex and heat he could entertain her.

  “Uh-oh,” he said softly, placing a finger over her lips, light as thistledown, to silence her. She might be a goddess, to be worshipped and groveled to by the Swiss execs, but Patrick was her god, to be obeyed. “Now, behave yourself and get on with the task in hand.”

  Miranda experienced a pang of loss when the finger left her lips. She’d wanted to kiss it, draw it into her mouth and suck on it hungrily. Just the tiniest touch and contact excited her out of all proportion. She felt as if she were losing her mind for this man, but in a joyous, exciting way.

  The hook and zip on her skirt weren’t the barrier her bra hooks had been and in a flash, she was stepping out of it, balancing on her smart, business heels, terrified she’d trip on the hem and tumble. Not because she might bump herself, but because she didn’t want to disappoint Patrick. She didn’t want to be anything less than perfect and elegant and obedient for him.

  Where had this submissiveness come from? It seemed both bizarre and alien, and yet it was like a comforting cloak, slipping over her, suiting her perfectly. She found herself lowering her eyes, respectfully, even though a part of her wanted to gorge on the handsome sight of him. His elegant athletic body in his dark waistcoat and trousers, and the way his white shirt, open at the neck, made him look like a golden laughing prince.

  Nervous, she stepped out of her shoes, and then peeled down her hold-up stockings, tossing them aside. Just her panties remained, trim and lacy, the last barrier. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband, but Patrick shook his head. Her hands fell to her sides, as if they had no purpose, and she had no will.

  Not sure whether she should, she lifted her head and looked him in the eye. He smiled, beautiful and benign, yet still steely somehow. Keeping his gaze locked on her face he stepped forward until their bodies were almost contiguous, then looked down on her. He wasn’t all that much taller than she, but just enough to reinforce his supremacy. His hands dropped to her hips and he pulled her close until expanses of her bare skin were pressed close to the length of his clothed body. The brush of cloth against her breasts and abdomen and thighs was tantalizing and perverse, as was the taste of his mouth as he kissed her deeply again, thrusting his tongue between her lips, exploring her teeth, her palate, the inside of her cheeks.

  It was a thorough kiss, a controlling kiss, and that quality compelled her stillness. As he devoured her, she knew she wasn’t allowed to touch him in return. Her hands hung motionless at her sides, held there by his will.

  He kissed her for a long time thus, one hand on her bottom, pressing her to him, one hand in her hair, securing her head. The power of his mouth was almost cruel, it made her jaw ache, but she rejoiced in it, feeding on his lust.

  Finally he drew back, and said, “I’m going to spank you now. I’m going to spank you hard, and you’re going to enjoy it, even if you don’t think you will.”

  His voice was hypnotic, even, gentle. All power in his soft words.

  But I know I’ll enjoy it.

  That one casual spank he’d bestowed on her had made her sex flutter and desire gather. More she knew would be wonderful, despite the pain. Years ago, she and an old boyfriend had tried a bit of BDSM play, and that, too, had set a fire in her sex. The man had lost interest, and that hadn’t bothered her at the time, but now she knew she would have liked to continue and experiment.

  This time it would be different, greater, more wonderful. Because it was Patrick. Looking into his eyes, she knew this wasn’t his chief kink. It was just something he liked to do, and wanted to do now, but that was enough for her. With him, she could try everything, do everything.

  “Come,” he said, taking her by the hand and leading her across the room to the little old settee, which was dun-colored, the worse for years and irregularly stuffed. Still holding her hand he sank down onto it and set his thighs strongly braced. Ready. “Right, Miranda…let’s be having you.”

  Not quite sure how he wanted her, she followed the tug of his fingers and after a bit of hitching and adjustment, found herself face down across Patrick’s lap, balanced in a state of both precariousness and safety. Her body and her face flamed, blushing furiously at both her vulnerable condition and the sensation of his solid, frisky erection digging into the side of her belly.

  His next words surprised her.

  “You can still change your mind, love. If you think this isn’t what you want, we can do something else…even turn the tables.”

  Her heart pounded. He’d do that for her? It was against his preference, she was sure of it. But for her, he’d go against his natural desires. What did that mean?

  “Miranda?” he prompted.

  “I don’t want to change my mind. I want this!”

  “Good girl…good girl…”

  He began to caress her bottom, smoothing the tips of his fingers over her toned flesh through the flimsy fabric of her knickers. She worked hard at the gym three times a week, and she ate a good diet. She was in great shape and her bum was one of her best and sexiest features.

  His touch was light, but aroused her exponentially. She felt again that urge she often got with him. The compulsion to move, to jiggle about, to rub against him, working off the electrical energy of desire that he roused in her. She felt as if she were bursting with it, whenever he was near. When she was at the office, she channeled it into work and ambition and the pursuit of excellence. When they were alone, it roiled inside, ever growing and boiling until an orgasm released it.

  When she began to move, he said, “Tut-tut,” and pressed down on the small of her back, to steady her. She obeyed instantly, and once she was still he peeled down her panties to the tops of her thighs, baring her bottom.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured…and then spanked her. Hard. Two fiery slaps, one on the crown of each buttock.

  Miranda yelped as if she’d been electrocuted. This was nothing like that play slap the other time, and nothing like the meek and mild spanking her former lover had given her. This was powerful, determined, efficient, and just those two blows, and then a couple more, set her bottom and her pussy wildly aflame.

  “Oh, God! Oh, God!” she chanted, unable not to wriggle now. Her entire sex was throbbing as well as her rear end, glowing and pulsating, just a hair away from climax.

  Patrick spanked on, coating the entire surface of her bottom in burning heat, making it feel swollen and as if it were a simmering fluorescent crimson. Maybe it was? She didn’t care. She couldn’t think. She was desperate for the end of the awful, beautiful pain, but in the gaps between the strikes, she wanted to cry out more, please, hurry! By now she was lifting her hips to meet each hit, matching his action with her reaction.

  “I want to come!” she wailed suddenly, unable to stop herself.

  “Then why don’t you?” observed Patrick, still spanking as he laughed fondly.

  Hitching
around on his lap, and rubbing herself lasciviously against his cock as she did so, Miranda reached around underneath herself to find her clit. She barely needed to touch it. Just one stroke and she came hard, desperately hard, the first pulsations fluttering in time to a couple of Patrick’s spanks.

  “Oh…ooh…oh, God,” she gasped, pleasure cresting and surging, her legs kicking crazily as he ceased the punishment and slid two fingers into her channel from behind. Her pussy grabbed at him, hungrily, welcoming the intrusion as his thumb and his free fingers stirred the redness on the underhang of her bottom. His other hand was on her back, soft and light.

  The orgasm seemed to go on a long time, a jerking, pulsing jumble of pain and bliss. Out of her head, Miranda was a castaway washed up on the living rock of Patrick. He was her refuge, and she clung on, sobbing and thanking him.

  Eventually, she fell back into herself, intensely aware of his erection boring into her. It was like a knot of oak against her, hot through his trousers. She could feel it glowing, almost pulsing, calling to her, the heat of it echoing her own. Without stopping to ask, she slid off his knee and pressed his thighs apart with her hands. Shaking, fumbling, she unfastened his trousers and rummaged amongst his shirttail and underwear to draw him out into the light and air, an angry reddened column of primal desire.

  Before he could speak, she slid her lips over his crown and started sucking hard and not too skillfully, as if her life depended on it.

  “Oh, you beauty,” shouted Patrick, half purr, half snarl, all desperation and long withheld need. His clever hands sank into her hair, gripping her head, directing her efforts, making her take more of him. “Use your tongue more, love…agh…yes…that’s what I like.”

  She licked and sucked and swirled her tongue all around his glans and every bit of his shaft she could reach. He tasted both foxy and delicious, salty and fine, and he vocalized as she mouthed him, just as she’d cried and shouted when he’d spanked her and then thrust his fingers into her.

  When he tensed and went rigid, she reached out and gripped him around the waist, hugging him for dearest life, so he couldn’t withdraw. As he started to jerk, she sucked harder, flicking him sinuously beneath his glans, stabbing and probing like a guileful serpent intent on his pleasure.

  A harsh oath echoed around the little room as he filled her mouth. Then came another and another, lurid, agonized utterances so unlike his usual easy amenable tones that it might have been another person entirely ejaculating onto her stroking tongue.

  I love you.

  The words echoed in her head, just as Patrick’s profane cries of pleasure rang in the room. Even as he climaxed, and she gloried in it, the revelation terrified her. And confused her. She wasn’t even sure if she’d thought it, heard it, or whether it had been the product of her mind or his.

  She only knew that wherever the thought had originated, it had been the truth. She certainly loved him whether he loved her or whether he didn’t. Letting him slip from between her lips, she looked up at him, half hoping he was still insensible with ecstasy, eyes closed, out of it.

  But he wasn’t. His blue eyes were as stormy and confused as her feelings, although perfectly lucid. He stared back down at her, intent, astonished…afraid? Then he frowned, made a sound like the growl of a wounded beast and lunged forward, grabbing her by the shoulders and urging her back almost roughly on the rug in front of the settee. In a muddle of her limbs and his, Miranda found herself on her back, her sore bottom pressed against the rough texture of the cheap carpeting. She hissed through her teeth at the surge of pain even as she reached for him, trying to pull him over her.

  “No!” he hissed back at her, shaking off her grip, and instead of mounting her, slithering down onto his knees and crouching between her legs. She howled when he grabbed her hard by the buttocks and lifted her, wrenching her panties right off, then opening her up to him like a fruit and plunging his ravenous mouth down between her thighs to feast on her sex.

  “Patrick! Patrick!” she shouted as he plagued her with lips and tongue—just as she’d done him—and sucked hard on her tender clit with ruthless intent.

  Before she could hardly draw breath again, a fierce, hard, painful orgasm wrenched at her. Agonizing in the intensity of pleasure and the way Patrick’s fingers dug deep into the punished muscles of the bottom he’d spanked.

  Somewhere in the furor, she seemed to feel his voice against her throbbing pussy.

  “I love you,” she sobbed.

  Had she echoed what he’d said? Or simply what she’d wished for?

  * * *

  Everything was the same. Everything was different.

  The next day, Miranda didn’t know how to feel or act or look at Patrick. She’d ruined everything by blurting out her feelings, she knew that. Not that he showed his discomfiture or acted in any way out of his normal, serene efficient mode. But she could tell he was as shaken up as she was.

  I can’t go on like this. I need him. I love him. I want to talk about it but he doesn’t seem to want to.

  Work was tough. Two morning meetings were grueling. She managed to get through, and Patrick was still the perfect personal assistant. But when lunchtime came, he asked for the afternoon off. Miranda’s heart leapt, hoping he’d suggest a trip to the cottage, but instead, he left alone, and she found herself staring out of the window, watching the Citroën pull away from the car park.

  She couldn’t blame him. For any number of reasons.

  She’d broken the unspoken rules of their relationship.

  Office liaisons were severely frowned upon.

  She was the one who’d complicated something that was stunning and perfect in its simplicity.

  Sex, in a special place, as no-strings therapy. Probably as much for him as it was for her.

  The afternoon dragged abominably. She couldn’t go on like this. She couldn’t face the weekend brooding and fretting, so she went online, looking for a short break, at a spa, a last-minute deal. Nothing took her fancy, though, so she decided to check email one last time then go home, via an off-license on the way.

  Her heart dropped like a yo-yo when she saw a message from Patrick. And when she opened and read the attachment, she felt sick, adrift, shipwrecked.

  He’d sent her a formal letter of resignation, a very plain, simple request. A serrated dagger through her heart.

  Racing through the building to the car park, she didn’t know and didn’t care if she’d shut down her computer properly, locked her office, got all her things. She just had to get to Patrick’s place. A phone call or a text just wouldn’t do. She couldn’t find the words, despite her usual executive eloquence, and she had to see him at home as she’d never seen him there before. Their lives had never intersected apart from the office and the cottage, but they were going to now, whether he wanted it or not.

  She’d have an explanation, and one last fuck, even if it killed her, or him, in the process.

  He lived in a nice building, not modern, but full of character, and built from mellow old stone. It was quirky, like him and his vintage Citroën and his sharply cut but ever so slightly oldfashioned three-piece suits. Miranda stabbed the speakerphone button beside the big black door, under the porch, without waiting and allowing herself to falter. When he answered, after a long wait, she was about on the point of fainting.

  “It’s me” was all she could say.

  “You’d better come up,” he answered without even having to ask who it was, despite the tinny
quality of the speaker, that no doubt made her voice sound just as odd as his did.

  On his landing, she hammered on the door, not caring a jot if neighbors on his landing heard her bashing away. She had to get in. She had to see him. She had to touch him. The door swung open after just a second, revealing him to her.

  As she’d never seen him before.

  In their trysts, she was reminded again now, he’d never actually taken all his clothes off. It had always been hurried rummaging amongst his linen, his beautiful cock standing proud from his fly, then after a few seconds, plunging into her sex or her mouth.

  But now, here he was, obviously fresh from the shower, wearing a short blue silky robe in a paisley pattern. It left his feet and his lower legs completely bare, along with a slice of honey-tanned chest, peppered with a shadowy smattering of wiry sandy hair.

  “I can’t lose you!” she cried, surging into the little hallway of his flat, forcing him to back up. “I just can’t! I couldn’t bear it!”

  Heat and confusion flared in his blue eyes. Was he shocked that she was here? Was he horrified? For a moment the floor seemed to shift beneath her, then she gritted her teeth and threw her bag down, launching herself at him and not giving either of them chance to think.

  She pushed him against the wall, cramming her body against his, reaching up for his head, to bring his mouth down to hers. His blond curls were wet and awry, and she dug her fingers into them as she kissed him, demanding with the pressure of her mouth what she was too desperate to ask for in spoken words.

  Joy, even if only temporary, poured through her when he responded, and his arms snaked around her, holding her as hard as she was holding him.

  Between their bodies, his cock was hard, a knot of instant, rocklike readiness. He worked it against her, knocking his hips against hers as he kissed her back as furiously as she was kissing him.