She came up the stairs on nervous high heels, her overnight bag full of what he'd instructed her to pack. In her hand she clutched her transcription of his voice mail which she had typed while sitting in a steno chair, wearing a tight black skirt, a starched white blouse, and a black push-up bra and lace panties. Just as she was wearing now under the outer clothing he had instructed – her most conservative business suit covering her most daring lingerie. She recited the text of the message as she had initially read it, and as he and told her to memorize it, listening to his voice, powerful and gentle and firm. Her lips now caressed the words as he had taught her to do.
"Writer seeks secretary he will mentor in creative writing/publishing.
"Sexy, creative, mature, occasionally brilliant, dominant writer is seeking a submissive curious secretary who has reached the point in her life when she is ready to explore her need to take dictation . . . and occasionally be disciplined in a mutually satisfying way. You have organizational skills, you are attracted to writers and you've always wanted to write.
You're attractive, sexy, single, divorced or separated, literate and articulate, and have deep memories or fantasies that maybe you believe you shouldn't have, but you feel the need to explore in a safe environment. . .
For the interview, you'll find yourself naked and draped across my lap, open, vulnerable and exposed as I ask you intimate and probing questions about your earliest sexual experiences and wildest fantasies with bare bottom encouragement.
I'm in my mid-fifties, neither built like Arnold nor hung like Northern Dancer, a wild imagination, a commanding voice and a powerful sex drive. I write much more than erotica and I self-publish -- where your secretarial assistance is required. I'll nurture your writing with encouragement, informed editing, a gentle voice, surprising suggestions, practical advice and a fun, firm hand.
If you find yourself aroused at this point, even though you've never done anything like this before -- perhaps
because
you've never done anything like this before -- please submit. If we click, this is a long term position. If not, we'll had a fun, creative night, exploring -- and you've had a writing lesson.
Photo and pertinent resume gets courteous response.
"Good evening, Miss Phillips." Warm, welcoming smile; rumbling and sophisticated baritone, iron in velvet. The piercing blue eyes seemed to be bending her over and inspecting her.
She shuddered and it was like a wet dog shaking itself; she actually felt a drop of moisture fly from her pussy, past the skimpy fabric of her panties, to splash, warm and embarrassing against the bare skin of her inner thighs, above the suspender belt he had instructed she wear.
"Come through," he said and lead through a bachelor's kitchen into a library where book shelves and filing cabinets towered like escalating ideas and where a black steno chair faced a black desk chair leaning against a large desk.
He stopped her in front a full length mirror, taking and setting her overnight bag on a table.
He had told her in their discussions -- still it took her breath away when it happened -- he would strip her at the beginning of the interview.
He spun her round as if she were younger, about to be undressed for bed. His expression calm, unhurried. Her face was red and flushed, her breathing best described as panting.
He quietly undid each of the buttons on her starched white blouse. He pulled it open roughly, then turned her toward the mirror while he took the blouse down and put it on a hanger.
(They had some comedy there because it wouldn't stay on the hanger and she had to suppress her giggles, half suspecting he was doing it to relax her. He casually enjoyed the moment with her then his went instantly stern again.)
He turned to the mirror and removed her push-up bra, tossing it aside. His hands tickled her nipples as if they young buds. Her blush covered her face and her breasts. Her nipples jutted, accusing her, betraying her arousal. He tweaked them and she moaned.
She remembered a flash of their online interview.
How do you feel?
Embarrassed and aroused.
They so often come together for you.
Yes, she said, wondering how he knew. She had told him little about herself then.
They both stared in the mirror now at her body, and into each other's eyes. Man and Woman, Dom and sub, their eyes discussing trust, dares and needs.
He ripped her skirt off. She stood there like a panting animal in her black suspender belt as his hand slowly reached for the elastics of her panties. In an agonizingly slow and humiliatingly revealing motion he pulled them down -- exposing the tips of her glistening lips.
The room was full of the pungent aroma of her need. She stood in garter belt, stockings and heels, in front of the mirror, reciting the message he had told her to memorize like a mantra. He threw her panties away.
He inhaled and spoke in her ear, his voice: rough silk.
"That's a lovely perfume you're wearing, Miss Phillips. A man could get used to having that around his office. Pleased be seated."
She walked, more or less naked to the chair, crossed her legs. He smiled. Almost hyperventilating she uncrossed them and left them only slightly parted.
"Now, Miss Phillips," he said amiably. "Tell me why you want to be my secretary."
"Oh, God," she gulped. "Well I've always attracted to creative men and dominant men and I'm a good secretary, and I like to read, and your ad made me so wet and made me think about things that happened a long time ago but I'm turned on by them and confused about them, and you seemed to understand and I think you're a really good writer, I mean, just from your ad, I mean I'm sure you write more than singles ads, much more, and I really think I'd like dictation from you. Oh God, I can't believe I'm doing this. I've never done anything like this before. I'm babbling. Please stop me."
His smile widened as she spoke, "I thought you put that rather well."
"I always wanted to write," she blurted, shocked herself that she'd said it even of course he knew it.
"You do write. All the time," he said, "e-mails, memos, letters."
"But it's not creative writing."
"More creative than you think. Do you sometimes struggle to find the right word?"
"Yes. It proves I don't have a very good vocabulary," she smiled.
He smiled back at her, "Proves you care enough about words to wait for the right one to arrive."
"I hope so," she nodded, thinking the interview was going rather well. Although she'd never done one half-naked before . . .
"Do you have ideas for stories?"
"Lots of them, but I can never get started."
"If I told you your literary house was burning down and you could only save one story idea, what would it be?"
"It's about Regency London, but I don't know enough about the period."
"Google it later. In the meantime write a letter to a friend."
"I beg your pardon."
He smiled.
"And you beg so prettily."
He enjoyed the blush that spread over her body as he continued.
"You know her, your heroine – she's mostly you -- have her write a letter to a friend about her day. Make sure there's a shopping trip involved. You might find you know more about the era than you think."
She smiled. "Yes, sir."
"Perks of the job if you get it," he smiled. "Call this one a freebie. Send it to me by next week. I look forward to seeing it."
