Jan 162012
 

Her gig as my “secretary” continued for some time.  I would instruct her intricately in terms of what to wear.  She would follow instructions to the tee.  She would be sweet, charming, and almost affectless.  I tried for a while to maintain the fiction of a vaguely secretarial gig, but it didn’t work.  Her hunger for cock, my hunger for her, made the ruse unsustainable.

She had a surprising tattoo – seemingly out of character – on her pubis, announcing her to be the property of someone whose name I didn’t recognize (but which sounded strangely familiar).  She managed to stretch my instructions always to dress just a little more sluttily than I quite anticipated.

It was months before I discovered in myself a desire to fuck her – up until then, our sex had been limited to oral.  But when I discovered that desire, it arose with a vengeance:  there suddenly was nothing other than fucking her that would satisfy me.  “I think I want to fuck you,” I told her one afternoon.

“O.k.,” she replied.

Afterward, I asked if she had wanted me to fuck her.  “Well, it never really occurred to me,” she said.  “I mean, you didn’t want to.”  Her submissiveness was so complete, so comprehensive, that the idea that she might have desires other than mine was foreign to her.

“Did you enjoy it when we fucked?” I asked.  I was fishing.

She certainly had acted as if she enjoyed it – flapping her arms uncontrollably and shouting, almost comically, “I love your penis, I love your penis, I love your penis!” as she rode me in the ground-floor hotel room, seemingly unconcerned about the looks (or, as it turned out, applause) we surely would get when we left.

“Of course,” she said, offended.  “Weren’t you paying attention?”

I became increasingly interested in her – she was mysterious.  A student, she said, studying psychology.  Oddly worldly for her young age.  Sophisticated and naive at the same time.  I had the sense nothing was new to her, and yet… she was utterly inscrutable.  I couldn’t even figure out her ethnicity.  She had the manner of being open, honest, disclosing.  But at the end of a conversation, I never felt I actually had learned anything.

Imagine my surprise when I saw her picture one afternoon in a local newspaper.  She was famous – I had had no idea.  She hadn’t hid it from me:  I knew her name.  I just had failed to connect the dots.  “Please,” she said.  “Don’t tell anyone about us.”

I didn’t.  And I won’t.

Say something! (I just did....)