The more Cindy rejected my advances, the more I desired her. I felt no interest in other women, though I had many opportunities. I began to jack off while looking at photos of Cindy, and this became the only way that I could find sexual release.
In China, bosses are often able to take liberties with their female assistants, and I'd had some experience with this. This added to my humiliation in being so firmly and so coldly rebuffed by Cindy. By her standards I was quite well off. I was an exotic westerner; tall, blonde haired and blue eyed, and I could offer her a foreign passport. Still, she always kept me at arms length, and showed no reaction to my confessions of love but frustration and disdain. I could not get closer to her by offering gifts, by appealing to her vanity, or by shocking her by openly telling her of the extent of my devotion. I realized then that I was getting older, and I was not the catch I had once been. She was twenty seven, and I was forty five. My foreign members of staff with whom she flirted were all around twenty seven years of age. Age had never seemed to be an impediment to me before, but now my advancing years, the wrinkles creeping out from the corner of my eyes, and the increasing difficulty I had in keeping my waist slim, were the deepest of humiliations to me.
Whenever I put too much pressure on Cindy, she threatened to leave my company, and I would have done anything to avoid this loss. Though she was a source of terrible frustration to me, I needed to be near to her, and could not imagine losing her from my life. More and more, she became my reason for living. When she threatened to leave my company, I would beg her to stay, and this spectacle was often witnessed by other members of my staff, so that I began to lose the respect of my colleagues. When there was a disagreement between us, Cindy thought nothing of shouting at me, and harshly scolding me in front of anyone present.
The years went by like this. My company became very successful, because the only way that I could impress Cindy was to achieve success in business. I worked so hard for our company, in the futile hope that she would one day respect me.
Though I knew it was my only hope, it was impossible for me to play it cool with her, and she knew full well that she would prevail in any dispute between us. When I one day confessed to her that for five years I had only had sexual release by masturbating while looking at photos of her, she told me that she would quit her job if I said such a thing again. A year later, I told her that I had borrowed her slippers from under her desk and kissed them while looking at a photo of her so that I could feel closer to her, and she said nothing, but took the slippers home the next day.
Where I will fail in telling this story will be in my inability to describe Cindy to you. Of course words cannot describe her to you, or make you understand what things about her had such power over me. There was something about her face that enthralled me. She had high, arching eyebrows and a warm and knowing smile. She could appear coy, and she could appear regal. I can do little more to describe what to me was sheer perfection. Her voice covered all tones in its range. It was rich and full. It could be harsh in anger, musical in laughter, and soft in confidence. She could look like a 1930s glamour model, a purring sex kitten, or a competent professional. My prime concern in life became in studying the shifting inflections of her face. Though she was Chinese, her eyes seemed Indian. They were Siddhartha eyes. I was obsessed by the shadows beneath her eyes, which came alive when she smiled. Her lips were full and expressive, and when she smiled exquisite dimples appeared at either side of them. Her face was longer and slimmer than most Chinese women. Her jaw was proud and forward, and the front row of her teeth arched strangely.
All parts of her were exquisite because they belonged to her. Her fingers were fleshy yet slim, and her nails well manicured and long. She wore polish on these, but no color. Her body was fuller than most Chinese girls, but still slim overall. She had full breasts, and full hips. Her ass was amazing; so round, elevated and arrogant. Her skin was white as chalk. I could study all the pieces of her body for hours on end. Every inch of her was the holiest of holies to me. When I saw her, all I wanted to do was to throw myself at her feet, and to kiss the ground beneath her shoes. I was jealous of the ground on which she stood, and the seats on which she sat. I wanted nothing more than to be this ground, or these seats, but because I was a man and not a thing this was denied to me. This seemed so unjust.
As for her character, Cindy was a contradiction. On the one hand she was very traditionally Chinese, and never spoke about sexual topics, or flirted in an overt way. On the other hand she was extroverted, loud and touchy. Her laugh was powerful, and she joked in a loud and bossy way. Her presence filled any room: others became meek and silent ghosts before the hurricane of her vitality. Her stride was jaunty and proud, and her demeanor was humorous, extroverted and forceful. Though she was not flirtatious, she gave off a sexy aura of that neither man nor woman could fail to be affected by. She was not vain, and she did not dress to show off her body, but she could not hide it. She sometimes wore glasses, which made her look bookish, like an office girl.
I cannot describe what it was about her, but I had been obsessed with everything about her for over five years. My moods were dependent on her attitudes toward me. She was sometimes sunny, but more often cold and aloof. This was a never ending source of grievance, because with our colleagues she was always laughing and joking, but with me she was usually just business. When I asked her to come up to my office, she would listen to me patiently, take notes and offer advice, and then, when I had run out of excuses to keep her there any longer, she would ask: "Is that it, then?" and leave me office with a jaunty stride as I sat there alone in a sulk. She knew how much I wanted to speak to her about my feelings for her, but she always deftly denied me this opportunity. I began to lose all of my pride.
She was touchy feely with everyone but me, and this made me feel despair. As she passed her colleagues in the hall, she would slap them on the back, and sometimes even on the ass. She was such a vibrant and extroverted presence. I often whined to her, "Why can't you treat me in the friendly way that you treat other people." She would reply: "I can't be myself with you because I know you have special feelings for me, and I don't feel comfortable with you." I said to her once: "I wish I were a woman, so that you could be friends with me, and be comfortable around me." She curled her lips in puzzlement and distaste, and then changed the subject.
I bought a car just so that I would have the chance to offer her a lift home now and then. She sometimes accepted, but more often declined. I was quiet and polite when I drove her home, for fear of saying something that might make her uncomfortable. She also said little. We both knew that I would pay the price of silence for the privilege of driving her home. I saved money in the hope that one day I could be useful to her. There was nothing I wouldn't have done for her, but there was nothing I could do to make her want to be closer to me. I was forever pleading her to tell me that I was her friend, and yet she never would. She refused to concede that she would be upset were I to die. She said she only had room in her heart for her boyfriend, and that no one else meant anything to her. She knew that she had me in the palm of her hand, but she didn't want me there. She reminded me again and again that she had always felt disgusted by men who admired her too much.
I could think about nothing but her: I had no sexual feeling unless I was thinking of her, and when I knelt in front of my computer looking at photos of her, zooming in on different parts of her, I had the most intense orgasms of my life. Sometimes as I spewed cum into a tissue I had placed in front of myself, I gasped "Cindy! I love you!" to the indifferent image on the computer screen. When I masturbated to her image, I did not imagine her naked, or far less having sex with me. She was too high above me for me to even dream of this. Instead, I imagined myself kneeling in front of her, and professing my love to her. I imagined myself undergoing trials, in order to prove my devotion to her.
I often hoped that my futile adoration would abate, but it did not. Instead, it grew stronger and stronger. I thought about her until I fell asleep; I dreamed about her and then woke to thoughts of her. I hurried to work for the chance to see her for a second, and say good morning in passing. The entire temper of my day hung upon the tone of that first good morning. Everything I did, I did to impress her. I saved money, bought a car and a house, looked after my body and my appearance, but nothing I did let me grow closer to her. When I tried to discuss my feelings with her, she told me that she loved her boyfriend, and that I shouldn't say such things to her.
When I heard, though, that her Chinese boyfriend was going to work in Africa for a year, and that she would not go with him, I hatched a desperate plan. It began as a daydream, as a sexy fantasy, which grew when I knelt before my computer screen, tugging myself off before an image of Cindy. As I lost more and more self respect though, and as my worship of Cindy grew, it began to solidify, and take on its own life. At first, after orgasm I simply forgot about this plan, but later, it stayed with me longer, and became less and less of a fantasy, and more and more of a plan. I knew all along that it was madness, and that it would ruin me, but more and more, as her slights heaped themselves upon my head, I wanted to be ruined by my love for Cindy.
My plan had a strange logic, and a mathematical certainty. Were I to bring it to life, I could not fail but to show Cindy how much I belonged to her. The key to the plan was Laura. Laura was an English girl from Leeds who had worked at my company a few years before, but had left because she felt we did not pay enough. Now, she lived in the international part of the city, among foreigners, discos and bars. My part of the city had no foreigners, and I always hoped to keep Cindy away from the international part of the city, afraid that she would find something better there.
Laura was the archetypal slapper: she had big tits and a big ass and a stupid slutty face. She would have made a decent porn star. She wore low cut tops and low jeans that revealed the crack of her ass. She was loud, like Cindy, but unlike Cindy she was lewd and graceless. She and Cindy had been good friends while she worked at my company: although they were different, Cindy found Laura's openness refreshing and humorous. They didn't keep in touch much anymore, but occasionally messaged one another on facebook.
