A Very Personal Assistant

by Portia Da Costa

  Oh, nice.

  He was a good size. A very good size. Jutting from above his pushed-down underwear, he was high and hard and pointing in her general direction, veins pronounced and crown rosy, even through the latex.

  “Does it meet with your approval, ma’am?” he murmured in a debonair impression of a butler offering her a choice entrée rather than a man showing her his cock poking out of his fly, along with his underwear and shirttail.

  “It’ll do.”

  “Cheeky cow,” he returned cheerfully, reaching for her thighs and edging them apart, firmly and with no nonsense. And she liked how he had no qualms about touching himself, guiding himself to exactly the right spot. No macho performance games, trying to push in, no hands, and poking around wildly until he found the entrance more by luck than judgment. “Hold still,” he instructed her when she started to push toward him. “Let me do the work…you don’t have to do anything.”

  “But what if I want to?”

  “Ack, always have to be the boss, don’t you,” he observed, pushing himself now. His cock was definitely a bit bigger than it’d looked from such an awkward over-the-shoulder angle. He felt huge as he forged in, making her yield. “I thought this afternoon was all about you relaxing and not trying to control everything for a change.” With a jerk of his hips, he was in to the hilt, making her gasp.

  The urge to push again, to work herself against him, was uncontrollable. She grabbed at the edge of the table, for purchase, and shook her hips.

  “Now, what did I say?” he reprimanded with a chuckle, steadying her with a strong hand on the small of her back. “Stay still…keep it here.” He pushed very slowly, pressing her against the edge of the table, then staying there, keeping her pinned.

  “But I like to move…when I’m fucking.”

  His fingers were firm on her back. Unyielding. His cock felt huge inside her, also unyielding.

  “Try something different, Miranda…a change. That’s why we’re here.” He leaned over her, and she felt the brush of cloth against her skin, and a tiny discomfort from the teeth of his zipper pressing, too. Inclining over her back, his body felt strong and protective, familiar and yet new and exciting. His breath was warm against her hair and the back of her neck as he nuzzled her lightly with nose and closed mouth, like a cat.

  His immobility was dynamic. His cock a hot bar lodged in her sex. She stilled, savoring the feel of him, within. In the midst of crazy sex, she found serenity in his quiet, solid presence, over and inside her.

  “Miranda,” he whispered, his voice vague, almost bemused. On the surface of the table one hand found hers and laced her fingers with his. The other hand skated along her hip and thigh, then slithered beneath her, searching for her center. Quickly finding it…

  Patrick’s hands were manly, but deft. She’d always admired the grace of his gestures, the swift, efficient way he typed or gathered papers, even just set down a cup. The tips of his fingers were square, firm, steady. Deadly accurate as they settled on her, on her clit.

  His touch was light, angled, teasing. The erotic engine inside her revved up and she began to hitch about again, desperate to release pent-up energy and pleasure.

  “Hush,” he breathed, still touching, still rocking that beautiful workmanlike fingertip at the very focus of erotic sensation. “If you want to move, move inside, sweetheart…grip me. Caress me with your cunt.”

  Permission. She’d been granted permission. For a microsecond, every feminist particle of her rebelled, then just as quickly realized the truth. There was strength in giving in, it was her choice, what she wanted at this moment. With his big cock in her sex, and his powerful body over hers, pressing her to the table, he was still serving her, giving her precisely the sensations that pleased her.

  The scent of his cologne filled her head and made her smile with delight. He, too, it seemed, had topped up just as she had. His woodsy fragrance was always low-key and discreet around the office, but now its sensual notes were strong and spicy.

  “You smell good,” she said, panting with effort and concentration as she contracted her inner muscles, grabbing at him. It was hard going not to come almost immediately, but now he’d asked for this, she would give it to him—he deserved it.

  Within seconds, she wasn’t the only one who was panting.

  “Oh, hell,” he gasped. “That’s good…that’s fucking amazing.”

  And still he didn’t move. Still he lay over her, deep inside her, rock-hard and unwavering. But his heartfelt gasps and muttered oaths told her she was getting to him. Even his fingertip wasn’t moving now. It just rested against her.

  But as his mouth opened against the side of her throat, and he kissed her hard there, her control splintered. Silver sensations rippled like electricity around his cock.

  “I…I’m going to come…. I can’t help it….” Her words sounded choppy and weird. Had she uttered them, or was it Patrick?

  “Fuck….e, too…” That was him.

  His whole body tensed over her, and as her sex seemed to shimmer and gather itself, she half expected him to start thrusting furiously, as her previous lovers has mostly done at the point of no return.

  But still Patrick was different, and himself. He shoved hard, but short. Little jerks, contained power, mastering his own hips even when he shouldn’t have been able to keep control of anything. He massaged her sensitive entrance with the girth of his cock, even as his finger circled roughly on her clitoris.

  “Come now, love,” he growled as he did just the same.

  With a keening wail of pleasure, she met and matched him.

  * * *

  Later, they set themselves to rights, and drank tea. Miranda could scarcely believe how ordinary everything seemed. Not ordinary in a mundane way, but in a quiet, calm, comfortable way that soothed her and made her feel refreshed. All the sense of being drained and burnt out that she’d been plagued with just a couple of hours ago seemed to have been erased by the spiritual fire of orgasm.

  And her strangely serene relationship with Patrick was unaltered and yet at the same time better somehow. The sex didn’t complicate things. It just seemed as if the memories of it were bedded in a deep quiet place that she could draw on when she needed revivification.

  It was clear that the dynamics of their working association were going to remain unruffled, too. The cottage was a special place—neither work, nor home. Time out of time. And they returned to it several times in the next few busy weeks. Always after a taxing time, when Miranda had had to grapple with curmudgeonly opponents at high-powered meetings. She’d return to the office, swearing and cursing even if she’d achieved her objective—and she’d see that sweet knowing twinkle in Patrick’s eyes.

  At home, she thought of him sometimes, perhaps more than she cared to admit, but life was busy. Work took most of her energy, and what little social life she had was with an established group of friends of both sexes. No dating.

  A few times, she’d thought about ringing Patrick, asking him out, but the specter of workplace complications hung over the question. She’d seen people get too involved and crash and burn in ridiculously farcical flames.

  One day, after a bitch of a morning, grappling with a delegation from the firm’s new Swiss partnership—a set of tough negotiators for all their superficially polite amenability—she was at the end of her tether. For once, when she returned from the meeting, Patrick wasn’t there, and that absence infuriated her.

 
She flung her binder across the room and it knocked a tower of document baskets and a potted plant all over the floor.

  Patrick wasn’t chained to his desk, she knew that. There were plenty of legitimate reasons why he could be elsewhere, and she’d even asked him to get some old documents from the file room….

  Yet still, she raged, “Where are you, you fuck! Just when I need you, you go AWOL…you and those bloody Swiss bastards. Men, you’re all the fucking same!”

  It was nonsense, and ridiculous, and she knew it, but she wanted to knock everything off his desk, and send it flying, and smash all the other plants on the shelves around the office, too.

  “Fuck!” she growled again, stomping across the room and swooping down to pick up papers.

  “Well, if that’s what you want, boss, I guess another long lunch is in order.”

  Her heart leapt at the sound of his voice, in a most alarming way. It wasn’t a sex thing somehow, just relief, huge relief, that he was here.

  “Yes, it fucking well is!” she countered, still down, a sheaf of muddled paper in her hand. Of course they’d all had to slide out of the folders, hadn’t they?

  Teetering in a crouch, on her smart heels, she glowered over her shoulder at him, then suddenly overbalanced, landing on the carpet on her bottom. Another howl of rage rose to her lips, but within an instant, Patrick was at her side, helping her to rise, and the anger seemed to steam away like morning mist and she found herself laughing along with him as his strong arm brought her back up onto her feet.

  “Another rough meeting, I guess?” he said, reaching out and tucking her hair behind her ears in an easy natural gesture.

  Miranda’s heart did another wild lurch. He never touched her in the office. It was part of their unspoken ground rules. A code they’d somehow formulated without ever once discussing it. She should have been even angrier with him for breaching it, but instead the tiny contact felt exquisite. And she ached for more of it, even as his hand withdrew.

  “Absolute shit. Those bastards from the Swiss partnership are the most devious and conniving operators on the face of the planet. They project this nice, reasonable facade but it’s a total sham. They’re all sharks.” She fussed with her hair herself, to cover the way she was shaking. Not with rage but with a sweet trembling at the proximity of Patrick.

  “But you aced the meeting all the same?” It wasn’t really a question.

  “Yeah, how did you know?”

  You know me so well, don’t you? You can see right through the tantrums to the heart of what happened.

  The revelation was alarming, yet wonderful. As was the way his beautiful cologne was tantalizing her, making her feel dizzy with lust and a whole lot more.

  “Lucky guess,” he replied with a puckish smile. “Look, let me tidy up here. Won’t take a second. Get your things and I’ll meet you in the car park in ten minutes, eh?” For a moment, he looked slightly unsure of himself, in a way she rarely saw, and twist of strange yearning made her shudder. “That is, if you still want to?”

  “What do you think?” she answered, wanting to reach down and ruffle his gilded hair as he sank into a crouch and began to field errant papers. Either that, or sigh at the way the action tightened his dark trousers around his haunches and his arse, revealing their strong, muscular shape. Instead, she darted away, snatched up her bag, then hurried past him while he was still scooping up documents.

  “See you in ten…maybe fifteen, but no longer, eh?” Not looking back, she headed for the car park, via the cloakroom.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later and he was walking toward her, jingling his keys, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder and the sleeves of his blue Sea Island cotton shirt rolled up. She liked the look of his smooth forearms. They were powerful, and had a capable quality. Patrick was wonderful with his arms and hands. Well, every part of himself really. She knew his body was fabulous, even though she had yet to see him absolutely and completely naked. Their couplings had so far had all been partially clothed affairs, even though not always hurried.

  Without speaking, he let her into passenger seat, holding open the door for her, then strode around to his side, sliding in and slinging his jacket on the backseat. He gave her a placid, reassuring smile that seemed to negate even the need for words, and still in silence, they set off, heading for their secret world of sex.

  About half way to the chalet, Patrick spoke up though. Miranda was half expecting him to ask her to remove her knickers, which he sometimes—but not always—requested, but instead, he said, “They’re hard on you, these division level meetings, aren’t they?” He glanced at her quickly, out of the corner of his eye, his expression compassionate. “I can tell, even when I haven’t been to one.”

  It was as if he’d released a pressure valve. It felt like a huge relief as she smiled back at him and said, “Hell, yes! I do enjoy them in a way…and I pretty much always get what I want out of them. But it’s difficult, even in the twenty-first century, to dominate a gathering of men that way. Division heads, partners…execs. They take some bloody mastering, I can tell you.” She took a long breath, sinking into the Citroën’s squashy, comfy seat. “But it really takes it out of me, angling for control all the time…you know?”

  “Yes…I know.”

  Three words, but they seemed to hum with a deep, almost psychic wisdom.

  “I know you do…and that’s why I like our…um…” What to call them? “Our little get-togethers. I like them because I don’t have to be in charge. I can just…just…”

  “Submit?”

  “Yes…with you, I don’t have to decide things or control things or take responsibility. I can just be.”

  It was easy to say it. But complex, scary and wonderful to feel it. She had a sense that in admitting to that particular word—submit—she’d stepped through yet another veil, moved onto another level, and her pussy tensed suddenly at the thought of it.

  The last time they’d been together, Patrick had landed a single teasing slap on her bottom when they’d been fooling around together, tussling on the small settee in the cottage. And she’d been stunned how much of a turn-on that had been. She’d immediately wanted him again, and got him, even though time had been short.

  But now time wasn’t short. She had no meetings for the rest of the day.

  * * *

  They passed the rest of the journey in silence, each mulling over their thoughts. At least Miranda was. For all his amiability and his sensitivity to her needs, Patrick was still very much an enigma. Were her needs his needs, too? Who could tell? She still knew virtually nothing about him outside of work and their time together at the cottage.

  As he let her into the small holiday home, he took her bag from her and set it on the sideboard by the door. With a touch to the small of her back, he propelled her into the center of the room, then circled around until he was standing facing her, his eyes fixed on hers.

  “You need to let go, Miranda.” His hand settled on her cheek, long fingers curving and inviting her to turn her face and kiss his palm. “Remember what you said…just be.”

  A delicious lightness of spirit sluiced through her body, washing away stress and angst. Her concerns about work, her life, even her occasional wistful ponderings about Patrick himself and what she really meant to him. His touch seemed to cleanse her of all that. Especially when he leaned forward and kissed her lips lightly.

  “Now remove your clothes.”

 
; Clamor in her chest, wild excitement, something new, something new. Immediately, between her legs, she felt hot and wet, silky with desire. An urge to move her hips, rub her thighs together, touch herself even, was like a crackling wildfire surging in her belly.

  But Patrick’s level blue gaze forbade those things completely.

  Dragging in a breath, Miranda shrugged out of her jacket. For a moment, she was at a loss what to do with it, but Patrick took it from her and laid it quite neatly over the back of a chair. Next, her simple silk shell top. She unfastened the little button at the back of the neck, then wriggled out of it, pulling it off over her head. Patrick reached for that, too, but not before smoothing her hair back into place. Then he set her top with her jacket, and returned his gaze to her, appraisingly.

  Her bra was white lace, very luxe and pretty. She’d taken to wearing her nicer undies to work—La Perla, Janet Reger, other upscale brands—simply on the off chance that it might be a day when she and Patrick fled the rat race to the cottage. More often than not, her silk-and-lace finery went unseen and unappreciated by his gaze, but there was always a frisson of excitement in wearing it anyway, fantasizing about moments like this. Moments when he smiled archly, his eyes zeroing in on her nipples that showed so darkly through the pale lace and protruded like ripe, tempting berries. Nodding infinitesimally, he swept his tongue over his lips as if anticipating the taste of such luscious fruit.

  Her fingers fumbling with the hooks and eyes, Miranda struggled to free herself. The tiny fastenings defied her, turned into impenetrable micropuzzles by her lust and frustration, but just as she was on the point of ripping and tearing like a madwoman, Patrick stepped forward, reached around her and unhooked her in a smooth easy action. For a moment, he left the bra hanging loose, via its straps, then he slid his two hands around to the front of her body and cupped her breasts. A second later, after just a little squeeze, he lifted away the white lace and bared her. The brassiere went with her jacket and blouse across the back of the hard chair.