My Assistant, My Toy (Closed for allamagione)

[CarnivalBarker]

"Ryan Sutter," I say, picking up the telephone, as I collapse on the bed at my home. The woman beside me failed to satisfy me anymore, and it didn't bother me in the least to make her wait until I was finished. "Yes," I say. "Put him through."

The call was from my office director in the Atlantic Corridor. Oil prices had increased in recent months, and that meant our operations costs had shot up. The directors were meeting in Chicago, and the shareholders were complaining that dividend payments might be withheld. The Board of Directors was summoning me there tomorrow to address "concerns."

"Jesus, Jason," I sit up, pushing the woman away slightly, as she had been trying to curl up beside me while I talked on the phone. "Can you not handle a simple task?" I ask him. "They will get their dividend! Well, didn't you explain it?!" I stand up and begin gathering my clothes. The woman in the bed would not be necessary. I didn't like her that much anymore, anyway. A former consultant that I had hired a few years back, she had stayed around when her contract expired to assist me in matters such as these. I had originally taken to her pretty brown hair and nice legs, but at 36, I could take her or leave her. Today, I would leave her.

"Jason, I'll be 48 tomorrow," I tell the caller. "You are going to make me 60. I am going to have to cancel my plans, fly to Chicago, and bail us out of this fucking mess that you can't seem to handle? Fuck you." I hang up the phone. I look at the woman sitting disheveled beneath me. "You gotta go," I tell her.

"But we're not finished," she mewls.

"Oh, we are," I say. "You gotta go. Now." She tries to argue and I make her shut up, get her things, and get out. I didn't need her, and didn't need this mess today. As she got dressed, I opened the blinds. It was raining. "Dammit, my wife isn't going to fly out today if these storms keep up," I say only to hope, and to nobody in particular. I put on my belt and shoes, brown to accent my navy pinstriped suit that I would wear with a simple white shirt and no tie for the trip. I reach for my phone once more and punch a direct-line code.

This is Katie, leave a message. "Fuck," I say, as the message played a series of beeps, signaling a ton of messages, making me wait to leave my own. Katie was my daughter's age. Twenty-one, I think. And she was no more responsible, it seemed, than my daughter, Monica. Her job was simple. She was my assistant. She was to be on call for anything I needed, whether to handle press requests or make sure my dog Barney got his shots. She was to stall phone calls with heads of state, when she wasn't bringing me coffee and picking up my dry cleaning. She was to be on call at all times and to be ready if I needed something. And for that she made more than most first year lawyers might. And now she was not answering the goddamn phone.

"Katie, call me back!" I grouse when the voicemail finally prompts me, before hanging up abruptly. I had hired Katie three weeks ago, thinking she could handle this job, and knowing her ass looked great in anything she wore, an unwritten part of her job description. This would be the first trip she would go on, and I could not imagine how this was going to go. But the little girl better get her shit together, and she had better return my call immediately. Before she did, however, the phone rang from a different caller. It was Monica.

"Hey daddy," said my little girl. "I wanted to say Happy Birthday!"

"It's tomorrow," is all I say, listening for the sound of the other shoe. Monica was a senior at Pepperdine, with the goal of becoming an Oscar Award-winning actress. She had long brown hair, and the youthful good looks of a Mila Kunis, but she probably had the acting chops of The girl that gets slaughtered or raped at the start of every horror film. That meant she was broke and never called unless she needed cash.

"Well, I wanted to call today, because Jeri Lyn and I are driving up the Coast to San Francisco tomorrow," she said. So, how much would this shopping trip cost me? "I knew I wouldn't get to call."

"Well thank you, baby girl," I say. "You guys need some money?" I ask, cutting to the chase.

"Well, we have enough money for the trip," she says. "Jeri Lyn os worried about covering our meals." Sure she is. This is the part where I give you a couple hundred bucks for meals, and you and Jeri Lyn go dress like harlots and flirt for meals from guys in San Francisco, and then take my money to go shopping.

"I'll put $500 on your debit card, honey," I say, because I am a sucker for my little girl and can't say no. Ever. Monica thanks me and quickly ends the call. Of course. I look at my phone, and still no word from Katie. Shit. I call my office immediately.

"Shane," I say, wondering why the fucking IT guy is at the reception desk. "Will you buzz my office and find Katie. Get her on the phone, now," I say.

 

[allamagione]

I’ve got to stop drinking like that, Katie thinks, head pounding and mouth unpleasantly dry.

She sneaks a peek in her compact mirror, groaning when she sees the bloodshot eyes looking back at her. Her thick black hair, usually styled in shoulder-length pincurls, is a little oily and wrestled into an updo that she hopes will pass as ‘professional’. And oh fuck, her ‘Rum Raisin’ lipstick — always a winning contrast to her pale skin and blue eyes — isn’t even all the way on.

As she pulls out the little black tube to fix it, she blows a breath into her hand and sniffs. Shit. She brushed her teeth three times, and she can still smell tequila. At least Mr. Sutter isn’t in the office yet. With any luck, she’ll have time to pull herself together before he arrives. He’s proven to be a taskmaster of sorts so far.

This real-world shit is for the birds. Some days she’d give anything to be back in college, drinking and partying and breezing by on her good looks and easy intellect. Hard to believe she’d ever been eager to get out and be an ‘adult’.

But it wasn’t like she had a choice. She’d gotten through school on a state scholarship, living with her mother to save money, but she’d amassed a bit of a credit card debt over the past few years, and she really needed this job. Okay, more than a bit. So she likes nice things, so what? It takes money to look good, she thinks with a huff as she returns her makeup to her Burberry satchel.

And that’s when she notices her phone is missing from its specified pocket.

Panic overwhelming her, she begins frantically rummaging through her bag. Hairbrush, protein bar, checkbook, spare pair of heels (she’s been burned by sidewalk cracks before), makeup bag, toiletries bag, alternate makeup bag, something squishy and probably better off unidentified... dammit, no phone! She can only hope she’s left it at home. She doesn’t remember using it on the subway, but she does tend to be a bit scatterbrained sometimes....

God, she’s totally fucked if Mr. Sutter has been trying to call her. Heart racing, she dumps the entire contents of her bag on her desk, hands scattering them.

And that’s when the phone — the real one — rings. Great! No calls for the past fifteen minutes, and now that she has an emergency, the phone will probably be ringing off the hook. She grabs the receiver and says awkwardly as she continues to search her belongings, “Er... Good morning. Um…... this... this is Mr. Sutter’s office.”

 

[CarnivalBarker]

"Katie, it's Ryan," I say, irritated. "You need to check your voicemail and return your calls," I tell you, before pivoting so as not to waste further time on you this morning. "I need you to call the bank and wire $500 to my daughter, Monica. Use the authorization code, and they will know what to do. Then, I need you to find the annual shareholders' report and make 6 copies for the directors. We will be flying to Chicago in the morning, and so you need to plan on going. Pack for two days, and call the airport and notify the pilots that we will need to be on the ground by 8:30 am, so you and I will leave around 6am from my house. Did you handle the new account reports summary that I've asked you for, I think, three times?" Probably not, I think, awaiting your answer. As I listen intently, I walk outside to my car, getting in and plugging the phone into the audio system to talk from there.

I wonder what little Katie has on today? I think. I hope it's one of those short dresses she has. Milton downstairs was checking her ass out last week when she wore the red one.. I snap away from my daydreaming when you finally answer me.

 

[allamagione]

Whoa, that is way too much information to process with a hangover. Katie doesn’t know how Mr. Sutter can think that fast, much less give orders that fast. And it’s becoming problematic how sexy she thinks his voice is when he’s barking instructions. Surely that’s not normal. Actually, it’s a little gross. He’s old enough to be her father.

It’s just because he’s on the phone, she thinks. If he were here in person, she wouldn’t be having such ridiculous thoughts.

And the thing with calling him Ryan? Yeah, no. She’s not doing that.

“Um.” In her scramble for a notepad, her powder compact ends up sliding off the desk into her lap, fine, beige dust exploding all over her short, form-fitting, black sheath dress. Dammit, that totally would not have happened if she’d been wearing anything but black. She’ll never get it all off.

She’s nearly in tears as she whimpers, “Mr. Sutter, could you… could you repeat some that?” Before he has a chance, though, she blurts out, “I mean, not the account summary thingies! I got those finished yesterday afternoon.” Honestly, she’s a smart girl, graduated with honors, but he’s given her practically no time adjust to her new position. “Sir,” she finishes for good measure, biting her lip.

 

[CarnivalBarker]

"Wire $500, to Monica," I say, sternly. "Then I need 6 copies of the annual shareholders' report to take to Chicago. You and I have to go there in the morning. That means you need to notify the company pilots to get the jet ready." My tone underlies my quick losing of patience. Jesus, is she high? How does she not get this?I think. "You will need to pack for three days," I say. "I hope you got all that. I won't repeat it again."

I am amused that she calls me sir. Its not really my thing, but I figure you are young and will learn. "I'll be in around noon. You can leave early today after I get there, but you will need to pick me up tomorrow around 6am. Did you get all that?"

 

[allamagione]

“No sir. I mean, yes sir,” I ramble. “Yes sir, I got it. Thank you, sir.” God, what was all that? Sometimes he really makes me nervous, that clip to his voice. And I want to impress him, so badly, but I feel like I’ve been making one mistake after the other.

“Monica, 6 copies, Chicago, pilots, 6am,” I repeat, hoping I hit all the highlights because I did finally locate a notepad, but the only pen I could find wasn’t working. Of course. I try to ignore the tingle in my belly at the thought of traveling with him. That was part of the job description, but this will be our first trip, and I have no idea what to expect. “Will there be anything else?”

 

[CarnivalBarker]

"Katie, calm down," I say, hearing the nerves in your voice. "You got everything. I'll see you this afternoon." I hang up the phone quickly, and head to the office.I wonder what her pussy tastes like. I think to myself. I'll bet it's shaved. I turn on the radio and continue my drive.

About 45 minutes later, I arrive at work and stick my head in your office. I look around with a sneer. "You need to get this place organized. I need those shareholders reports." I leave and head to my office. What the hell was that on her dress? I shake my head on the way out.

A while later, I buzz your office. "Get in here," I say immediately. "I NEED those reports, and we need to talk about Chicago." I slam down the phone, pissed.

 

[allamagione]

As soon as we hang up, I release a long, heavy sigh. That was terrible. You must think I’m a total spaz. I pull out a packet of hand wipes and try to clean off my dress as much as I can, but it’s a pretty big mess. Thank god you said I could go home early.

I stuff everything back in my bag. Obviously my phone is not there. As much as I’d like to make Little Miss Rich Girl wait an hour or two for her play money, I take care of that one first. It was first on your list, after all, so it must be the most important to you. I wonder what it would be like to have a dad like that. I haven’t seen my own in over twelve years.

I arrange for the plane, and then you’re already here, snapping at me about the damn reports. It seems only seconds later you’re buzzing me in, and you do not sound happy, so I go as fast as my black peep-toe pumps can carry me.

“Mr. Sutter,” I say, feeling my face flush as I futilely brush at the remnants of powder on my dress, “I have five of the copies—” I reach them in your direction. “—but there was a paper jam, and the sixth one got all crunched up, but I can go back and try to work with it when we’re finished here, if that’s okay.” I feel like I’m wincing in anticipation of your response.

 

[CarnivalBarker]

I take the five reports you have and point two fingers and tap them against your collarbone as I say, "YOU need to listen. I asked for 6 copies. Don't bring me 5, when I wanted 6." I thumb through the top report. "These look fine. Get me the sixth before you leave." I walk behind my desk and point you to the chair across from me.

"You haven't traveled with me yet. There are some things you need to know." My eyes wander to the place where your thighs meet where they are crossed, and appreciate how young and smooth they look. I feel myself harden.

"You will be responsible for all travel arrangements, bills, receipts, and invoices on the trip. See that they get to accounting when we return. You will be present for all meetings I am in, and I want you taking notes. You and I will have dinner each night with major shareholders. Dress," I pause lookinv at the dust on your dress, "appropriately." I begin to wrap up, "Finally, no tardies or missing any meetings while we are there. You've had issues with that already," I say, saying nothing more, icing you in your place.

"Book rooms for us at the Chez Revie, a suite for me and a room nearby for you. Then go home and get ready to pick me up at 6 sharp." I stop talking and you stand to leave. I take stock of you as you pull your dress down an inch or so, since it had ridden up. Your legs are firm and your hips are liquid. I think I am going to fuck you in Chicago, little girl, I think as you leave the room.

 

[allamagione]

I leave your office feeling about a foot shorter. And since I’m only 5’3” to begin with, that’s the last thing I need. Yeah, so I’ve been late a few times. Jesus, it’s not like it’s an everyday thing. Seems you’d cut me some slack once in a while.

I can do this, I think. This trip will be the perfect opportunity to prove myself to you. I clear the paper jam and get the last copy to you, then book the rooms and head home to my apartment to pack and get ready.

Not that I know exactly what to pack, so I pack a whole bunch of everything. A skirt suit with several blouses, half a dozen dresses in various cuts and colors, pencil skirts, a few more casual items like tailored slacks and cardigans. Jewelry, of course. With some difficulty, I manage to limit my shoe selection to ten pairs. I’m hoping you won’t say anything about the two large suitcases and oversize carry-on bag. It’s not like you can’t afford the extra baggage fees.

I think of the way your eyes roll over me sometimes, and I pack all of my sexiest lingerie and underwear. It’s silly, I know. You’re a professional and married, with a daughter my age. And sleeping with you would be career suicide. Still, it’s nearly impossible to think of being out of town with you for three days without thinking of what would happen if you were a little younger and single... and when I go to shave my petite legs, I make sure to touch up so I'm bare and smooth between them, too.

After all, I think with a yawn as I lie down for a good night’s sleep, nothing says I have to stick around with you after dinner. I could always head out for drinks, and there’s no telling who I might meet in Chicago....

I jolt awake at 5:45. Shit, shit, shit, I chant. At least I found my phone. But should I call you? God no, no time. I get dressed as quickly as possible in the fitted black boucle skirt suit I’d laid out the night before, low-cut fuchsia blouse underneath and black thigh-highs held up with my favorite hot pink garters, hoping to god this is what you’d consider ‘appropriate.’ Hair, makeup, shit, 5:58. Luckily, my bags are already in the Civic, and with some seriously dodgy driving, I somehow make it to your place by 6:11.

 

[CarnivalBarker]

As you drive to get me, your phone goes off, lighting the interior of your car. You see it's my number, but before you can answer I have hung up. Where in the hell is she at. It is a damn good thing she is cute, I think as I carry my bags to the front drive. As I do, you pull in.

"It's 6:15, Katie." I don't say another word. I hope whatever guy fucked you last night and kept you late was worth losing your job. I throw my single bag in the backseat, and throw in my folded, navy blue blazer on top of it, as well as a portfolio containing the reports. I climb into your car and you notice my brown slacks and white pressed shirt. I try to dress well, even to travel.

When we arrive at the airport, we rush past security, one perk of flying private aircrafts. We board the plane, just you and I, before the pilots and single attendant board. I ask the attendant for a breakfast sandwich. We are scheduled to leave at 6:45, late from 6:30, since we did not arrive on time to board. Though the sun is not yet up, I point to a large seat across from my own. "Get a copy of our report out, and get something to write with." I see you look groggy and cannot believe this shit. What is your deal? I think. If you were my daughter, I wouldn't tolerate this bullshit. I probably wouldn't think about cumming in your mouth to teach you a lesson, either, but then again...

I am interrupted when your phone rings. "Who is calling you at 6:45?" I ask. "Turn that off, we have work to do."

 

[allamagione]

Jesus, I think, gritting my teeth as you get into the car, I know what time it is. I can hardly keep my eyes open at this ungodly hour, and I certainly can’t help that my alarm didn’t go off. Or maybe I accidentally turned it off in my sleep. I do that sometimes.

It seems that a breakneck jog with several oversize bags would be enough to wake me up, but I’m still yawning when we get on the plane and gratefully croak a request for a large coffee from the attendant. I pull my portfolio and pen out with a sigh, jumping when my phone rings. Great. Trevor. Probably trying to bum a ride somewhere. I can’t believe I slept with that premature ejaculating idiot.

I bet Mr. Sutter could go all night long, I think, half-shocked at myself for entertaining the thought.

“Wrong number,” I snap, turning off the phone. I look up with a forced smile. “Well? I’m ready.”

 

[CarnivalBarker]

We work through the flight, largely involving me instructing you as to who the board of directors are and what they will ask and want to know. "Your job is to accommodate them and make sure we have the info they want to give us, and that I can answer their questions. In addition, you will set up reservations for dinners with some of them the next two nights." I think of something manipulative. "Always sit yourself next to me. I will need you to be nearby in case I need to discuss with you any follow up to the questions they ask pr issues they have."

And they may think I am fucking you, which would be fine by me, since by then I may be.. "Did you bring something to wear to nice dinners?" I ask. "If not, find something."

An hour later, we are on the tarmac in Chicago, and ready to get off the plane. When we arrive, I ask you where the company driver is that will take us to the hotel. "He isn't here," I tell you. I call our Chicago office, and the manager apologizes profusely and I hang up. I turn to you. "They said they weren't told I would be in town this week," I give you a lecturing stare, as I pull a wool overcoat across my arms to fight against the Chicago cold. I notice you have no jacket on at the moment. Katie doesn't think.. I remind myself. I hope she fucks, with that body. That's all she'd be worth.

We go into the ground transportation area, and wait for our driver before heading to the hotel. As we do, I think to engage you in some more direct conversation while I look at your firm legs and imagine them wrapped around me, wondering if I should fuck you after dinner tonight or tomorrow. "You think you can take it, Katie?" I ask, insinuating. "The details of this job?"

 

[allamagione]

God, it’s cold, and of course my coat is packed, and of course it’s all my fault that the driver isn’t here. Yet, I’m boiling on the inside, blood raging, usual nerves forgotten. I just found out about this trip yesterday, and you said nothing about booking a car. I bite my tongue to keep from calling you an insufferably overbearing prick.

But then you give me that leer while I stand there shivering and ask me if I can take it, and I can’t help it. I explode.

“Yes, I brought something nice,” I practically yell, “and yes, I know how to dress myself, and yes, I will obviously accommodate whomever I need to.” It’s hard to stop me once I’m on a roll. “And yes, I think I can handle making reservations and taking notes since I did graduate college with a 3.85 GPA, thank you very much, but it would be nice if maybe, for once, you had a little faith in me.” I can feel my face flushing hot. “And the driver isn’t my fault!”

So much for thinking this trip would be exciting. I can’t believe I was just thinking a few hours ago about what you’d be like in bed. I really disgust myself sometimes.

 

[CarnivalBarker]

Perfect, I think. Exactly the ammunition I need. I do not respect you. You are cute, sure, but I think you have too many distractions. Little girls enjoy little girl things, and little girls are not meant for the adult world. But I will be happy to treat you like my little girl.

"Katie, I will send you home this instant, if you want," I tell you. "You can get back on that plane and go straight home, and I will have your final check to you on Monday. I should fire your ass right now." But that ass will be mine I put my hands in my pockets and lean against the wall where we wait for the car. "Or you can grow up right this minute, and act like the assistant I hired you to be." I expect you will be that assistant right after dinner.

About that time, the driver approaches. "So what's it going to be?" I ask.

 

[allamagione]

Grow up. God, I’m so sick of hearing that. Just what the hell have I been doing for the past 21 years, if not growing up? Adults can be such assholes. They expect you to know everything, expect you to play the game like a pro without telling you all the rules. And it’s not like I had a lot of guidance in that area. Mom worked second shift my last two years of high school and all through college.

I cross my arms and bite the inside of my cheek, watching some losers play hackey-sack across the way. They’re the ones who need to grow up. I’m trying. That should count for something.

“Fine,” I grit. I pinch the bridge of my nose. I need this job. I want this job. And more, I want to be good at this job. I want that flutter of excitement that runs down my spine on those rare opportunities that you tell me I’ve done well. Finally, I drop my hand, blowing out a deep breath, and look up at you, back straight. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry, Mr. Sutter.” I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “I’ll try to do better.”

 

[CarnivalBarker]

"Good," I say, as I open the door of the SUV and offer you my hand to help you get in. "You can do this," I say, climbing in behind you. "You need to trust yourself and take more responsibility is all." I sit beside you, and your knee sits against mine in the close quarters of the car. I notice, but leave my leg there, because I know you will be uncomfortable and it is important to keep you off balance right now.

We arrive at the hotel and check in. I get the executive suite, which is nearly 2000 square feet and takes up 4/5 of an entire floor. The other 1/5 is your much smaller room next door, though both open to the same common area and entry. We both receive the only elevator keys. When we drop things off, you see that it is elaborate and ornate, with mahogany inlays wherever there is wood, and a large community bar off the den and common area. I turn the fireplace on, and sit in a recliner nearby. I watch as you explore both suites, waiting my chance to inform you about dinner tonight - the key to my plans for you.

"Katie, come in here," I say, interrupting your exploration.

 

[allamagione]

The suite is unsurprisingly fit for royalty, and it hits me: this man is from an entirely different world. I feel a sharp stab of jealousy for your precious little Monica. She grew up with all the best. But I wonder, as I run my hand over the marble counter in the bathroom, if she grew up with a dad. I look up into the mirror, and the jealousy dissipates, followed by a strange combination of triumph and foreboding. I’ve got all your attention for the next three days.

I’m still on edge from the close ride in the SUV, and maybe that’s why I jump when you call me. It doesn’t help that you look like a king on a throne when I enter the den. Rooms always seem a little smaller when you're in them. I lean against a doorframe with my ankles crossed, hoping to look unimpressed by the opulence of the suite and also wanting to keep a distance. “Yes, Mr. Sutter?”

 

[CarnivalBarker]

I take in your full length as you lean your tiny body against the door frame. You are blessed with a body from heaven, and I enjoy looking at it. Your eyes, however, betray a fear that falls between that of the innocent prey of a lion and the innocent schoolgirl preyed upon by men everywhere. I enjoy watching you squirm in my presence, for there really is no need for it. I hired you to look cute and carry my briefcase, not to create policy. I pay you because my wife will let me have an assistant, but not a mistress, at least that she knows of.

"We are going to need reservations for six at Delmonico's tonight at 9," I tell you, giving no reason for the late hour for dinner. "You've probably never been there," I begin in a parental, lecturing tone. "It is a bit more upscale than you've seen, so you should wear something nice, but not quite black tie." I think for a moment and drop a subtle marker designed to nag at your brain. "We will be attending with two other couples, but you need to arrange in advance for the company to pick up everyone's tab. All of it."

Two other couples. Two other couples. I knew exactly the reason I had phrased this as such. I wanted to suggest something a bit more illicit, without saying as much. I wanted you to be just curious enough to be uneasy, and maybe to feel a little presumptive. Once you agree to handle the reservations, I ask you if you are ready to meet with the directors in the same way a father might ask a child if she was ready to go see the dentist. As I do, I pray that you will not do something to embarrass me. We go over a few, final preliminaries, and I give you some simple tasks for the day's meetings. The entire time, I keep taking in your body with my eyes. It was an early morning and a moderately dull flight, and I was in need of both release and distraction. I was typically not a man to daydream, but today, with both of us in this massive hotel suite with a skyline view, I allowed one to cross my imagination. When I did, I thought about you standing there, against the door frame in nothing but a tiny, delicate, black nightgown that barely covered your round little ass, and did nothing to cover your young, firm thighs. And I thought of you standing there only long enough for me to cross the room and make you my own.

I snap away from my daydream when my phone rings. I look at it, and answer. "Hi baby girl," I say, talking to Monica. "Yes," I say, before extending my conversation. "Yes, Katie sent it last night. Katie, my new assistant. No, you haven't met her yet. About three weeks. No. No, Monica! Monica, not like the last girl, and that was between me and your mother. Katie is your age, so don't worry. No, Monica we are not getting divorced! Yes. Yes. We would tell you if we were. Monica you are wasting all of our time here, I have to go. Goodbye, sweetheart." I hang up and return my attention to you. "That girl," I say, putting away my phone. "She is very smart, but she loses her mind sometimes and cannot do the simplest things," I shake my head, not even connecting for myself the fact that I basically just described you. Having never met Monica, you are not privy to my knowledge that she even looks similar to you - same hair color, height, weight, build, make, and model. "You did wire her money, didn't you?" I ask.

 

[allamagione]

I’m not sure I’ve ever felt more like an object than I do standing there taking your instructions with your eyes all over me. Strange thing. If a guy my own age were to look at me like that, I’d slap the hell out of him. You do it, and the anger is still there, flushing my face with heat and making me cross my arms defiantly over my chest. What can I do but stand there and take it? You’re the boss.

But there’s something else underneath the anger, something I’d rather not think about. I’d rather not acknowledge that your use of the word ‘couple’ makes me a little wet. I wonder what you do after dinner with women you are a ‘couple’ with. From the way you’re looking at me, something tells me it’s not making sweet love down by the fire.

If you fuck like you run your business.... I shudder.

A moment later, the fantasy is blown apart when Daddy’s Little Girl calls to ask where her money is. I can’t believe you would have such a personal conversation right in front of me, and I pretend to be enthralled by some fake lint on my jacket sleeve because walking away doesn’t feel like an option.

Totally not surprised by anything I hear. A man like you doesn’t have just a wife. Neither did my father. I don’t know whether to hate you for it or to feel some kind of sick appreciation that you’d stick around regardless. At least Princess and I have something in common. Apparently we’re both good at ‘wasting your time.’

Arms still crossed, I answer you coolly, “$500 to the debit card. I made the bank repeat the authorization code back to me twice. It was the first thing I took care of after we hung up.” Well, after the powder fiasco, but you don’t need to know about that. “Sir,” I finish through my teeth before I turn to go make the reservations and freshen up for our meetings.

 

[CarnivalBarker]

"I knew you had," I tell you. "It was pretty simple," I say, as if to suggest that the simplest of tasks are all you can be trusted with. "She probably hasn't even tried to use her card yet. It's a good thing she is pretty," I smile.

As you leave my suite and head to yours, I get up th start unpacking my things, but watch you walk the entire way down the hall. Such a nice body. The things I would do.

I find you an hour later, and we head to a series of meetings. I introduce you as Katie Prince, at times joking that you are "The New Princess" of our Oil and Gas enterprises. The older, male audience in the meetings appreciate the joke, and several, though very polite and gentlemanly toward you, tell you that it is nice to have a pretty person in the room for once. One older man, a longtime major shareholder, shakes your hand and says, "Why I thought this was little Monica when I first saw her! It's nice to meet you Miss Prince. You should be a queen, though!" He says, trying to flirt as old men do.

The meetings are otherwise uneventful, and we ride back to the hotel. "Great job, today, Katie," I say. "The guys all loved you." I tell you that we will be having dinner with two of our smaller shareholders tonight, though to be clear, both have nearly $250 million invested with us. It strikes me that I know very little of your background, and that you may not be as at ease with such numbers and wealth. At the same time, this amuses me. She may just be a dirty little girl from across the tracks. Mmm, I would like that, I think, letting my fantasy blossom, figuring I will learn more about you in time. I do recall overhearing you tell my secretary and her assistant about at least two guys you had dated in recent weeks. Two guys in three weeks? Lucky guys.

We arrive at the hotel and get on the elevator. "Just meet me in the foyer around 8. We will go have a drink and wait for the others to arrive." I tell you once more as you head toward your suite, "You did good today."

 

[allamagione]

I feel like I spend the entire day blushing. At least the parts of it that I’m not collecting receipts and double-checking schedules and scrambling to take note of every word said. Well, not every word. The lousy golf jokes are better off dying an ignominious boardroom death under the weight of polite chuckling. And I’m pretty sure Mr. McCallister of Sunstar Communications doesn’t want his Viagra joke immortalized in meeting minutes, either, though I’d love to do so with a few creative flourishes of my own.

What a bunch of moneyed old tools. Some of them probably couldn’t match their own damn socks without their assistants.

Of course, that thought only brings into focus the shrewd competence of my own employer, and once again my mind wanders to your competence in other areas. During a short afternoon break, I allow myself an absurd daydream about you sitting in that recliner like you were earlier. Only I’m on my knees in front of you, bobbing my mouth up and down wetly on your cock and studying the sharp bulge of your Adam’s apple as you lean your head back, humming in pleasure. Your hand tangles in my hair, forcing my nose into your pubic hair as I struggle for breath....

Yeah, like I’d ever let that happen.

And what’s this shit about me looking like your daughter? Freaky.

Despite the fact that you openly praised me throughout the day, I’m nervous as hell getting ready for dinner. I’ve never been to a place like this, and I’m sure there will be about twenty utensils beside the plate and about a gazillion possibilities of me embarrassing you. Meetings are one thing. Posh social events are quite another.

I decide to wear blue. Royal blue, I think with a smirk as I step into the dress and zip it up, a nod to the old man who called me a queen. The dress is form-fitting silk hitting right above the knee, and the deep V neckline precludes the wearing of a bra. The only thing underneath this dress is a black lace thong. I shiver as I think about that scrap of fabric massaging the pucker of my ass all night.

My heart feels like it’s going to pound right through my throat as I step into the foyer at five past eight.

 

[CarnivalBarker]

I show up in the foyer in some gray, flat-front producer pants, a crisp white shirt, and a black blazer, custom tailored to show a perfect form and just enough cuff. You are nowhere to be seen. I try your cell phone, and get no answer. A few moments later, you arrive and i definitely check you out, but say nothing. You look great, but I'm not going to get you there easily. You should earn my adoration, I believe. "Ready?" I ask.

I hold the door and let you in the backseat, then climb in behind you, leaning to press against you as I close the door. I notice how good you smell. Girls always smell good, and it is one of my favorite things about young women. The drive takes about twenty minutes, and I fill you in on some things before dinner.

"These two at dinner are looking for a deal to purchase increased shares where we offer them as dividends. If they can join forces, they could buy large and control 27% of the company. They are solid for keeping me in my job, so I like them to stay happy, and I like their shares to increase." I look at you to see if you get it, unsure if you do.

"Larry owns interests in refineries in South America and Europe. He is a straight shooter," I lower my voice. "He may also be involved in narcotics in Colombia, but you and I do not know that. So don't mention it, obviously." I turn my attention to the other investor. "James Drake is my age, and his wife is like a bowling ball that yells at him from the corner. Needless to say," I begin emphasizing each word, "he...will...like...you. Feel free to bat those pretty eyes at him." I tell you, underscoring my own judgment, perhaps.

We arrive and we go inside to a large, ornate bar with oak paneling and crystal trim. I walk in, head high, and greet the doorman, the maitre de, and the bartender by name. The proprietor comes over shortly and says hello. You suddenly notice that everyone, patron and employee alike, are looking in our direction, and it is then that it hits you how big of a deal I might be. I offer you a chair beside my own, and we sit. "What do you drink?" I ask.

 

[allamagione]

I get what you’re saying. Be pretty and stupid. In other words, exactly the kind of thing you like to criticize me for when it’s just the two of us. Sometimes I really hate you. Almost as much as I want you to make me beg for your cock.

No, scratch that last part. Got to stop thinking that way.

I can’t help but snicker lightly at the idea of Larry the Blow Man. And wonder just how you came across that information. It’s not like I haven’t done a few lines at parties in my time, though it was more likely to be crushed Ritalin before big exams. And when you tell me about the Drake guy, I’ll admit it. Your pauses, as much as your words, send a rush of electricity between my legs.

As you work the restaurant staff, I realize that I have nothing to be nervous about. You’ll do all the work here, and I need only ‘bat my pretty eyes.’ I decide to get in some practice when you ask me what I drink, noting it’s neither an offer nor a suggestion. Looking up at you from under my lashes, running one fingertip over the edge of the bar, I answer, “Gin and tonic. Two limes.”

 

[CarnivalBarker]

I look at the beautiful little girl in front of me, running one innocent finger of flirtation along the bar. Oh you are, good, I think. I am going to enjoy you. I order your drink and a reserve bourbon, neat, for myself. I hand yours to you and then look at my own.

"Bourbon gained favor during prohibition. Distilleries in Kentucky were hard to find and unregulated. It began to replace the clear liquors that were imported from Russia and Poland. Grain alcohol became the flavor of the day. Cheers," I say and hold my glass up toward yours. We settle in to wait for our guests and I take an opportunity to chat with you, which I have had little time for since you started work.

"How do you like working for me?" I ask, direct as hell and putting you in an uncomfortable box on purpose. I like to see how you react, and what you don't know is that I don't give any damn what the answer really is. "Other assistants have flamed out fast. But I think you have greater talents."If you let me use them the way I want, at least.

I sip my drink, watching you over the rim of my glass, eager to get your response. I plan on working you hard under whatever circumstances there may be. I plan to enjoy you working for me. And I plan on doing things my way, even if things include you. The other major part of this situation, quite frankly is excitement. I feel like a man with a pretty young girl like yourself by my side. This could be a long term arrangement, Ryan. She's Grade A Prime.