The first time I saw him, I thought he was the most arrogant jerk I had ever met. He walked into the room like he owned it, looked around as if checking out the sexual possibilities, when his eyes locked on mine. At that moment, I felt as if he was reading my mind, my most intimate thoughts, and I was embarrassed because I was unconsciously lubricating, and he had to know it was for him.
As much as arrogance always repelled me, there was a degree of cockiness that also attracted me. There was just something beautiful about a man that could walk into a room and take command of it in a moment. I resolved not to permit him to see how I was tempted to melt as he walked into the company party. The remainder of that evening, I avoided him the best I could. I was certain he could read my mind, or at least my expressions and had no desire to capitulate to him.
I was new to the company, though, and would quickly learn that his desires carried impetus, and he desired me to be his assistant even though a colleague had been responsible for my hire. Within a week, I was told to report to his office. I did so reluctantly.
As a boss, he proved to be demanding, even dogmatic. I was punctual, courteous, and efficient, yet seemed unable to please him. For two weeks I worked for him without any positive comment from him. Finally, one day, he told me to accompany him to lunch, that he had something he needed to discuss. I accepted his invitation, thinking I had no choice in the matter, and that it was job related. I was a little surprised to learn we would not be lunching in the building cafeteria, but assumed he had something else on his mind.
He drove to a nearby quiet restaurant and escorted me inside. It was quaint and cozy, dimly lit with candles on each table. The room smelled of garlic, and there were traditional red and white tablecloths on every table. There was nothing particularly elegant about the decor, but there was a feeling of home, of comfort, of warmth.
We sat at a table toward the back of the room. The waiter arrived quickly, greeted him by name. I was not consulted, but he gave the order for both of us. I was too puzzled to object. I suddenly felt off balance, and wasn't quite sure what to expect.
"Thank you for agreeing to have lunch with me, Ms Mission. I wish to discuss your service to me."
"Yes, Sir? Have I not been satisfactory, Sir?" I inquired tentatively.
"Your job performance is not in question, Ms Mission. The service to which I refer is a personal service. I find that I miss the company of a woman, her softness, her fragrance, her gentle touch."
"Oh," replied Ms Mission, "and how can I be of service, Sir?" I asked with the expectation of a shopping list of characteristics for which to search.
"I wish to train you for my personal service." There was dead silence. Even sound coming from the kitchen stilled as though there was some kind of holy hush as I formulated some kind of reply.
"What kind of service, Sir," I dared to ask. "I am not a maid or a cook."
