The Personal Assistant 2

The personal ad in the back section of the

New York Review of Books

caught my eye immediately:

Widow seeks personal assistant. Must be well-educated, worldly-wise, well-traveled, have impeccable taste, be totally discreet, loyal, and available 24/7. Excellent salary. On-the-job training as appropriate. Send résumé to Box 7532.

I had risen rapidly through the ranks in the Air Force, reaching the rank of colonel by my early forties. My last posting before I voluntarily retired was to NATO headquarters in Brussels—hardly a hardship post! Officially, I was senior planning office for a three star but my real job was to act as a gofer for visiting dignitaries and their wives: find the best hotels, the fanciest restaurants, the best nightclubs and more if a congressman happened to come unaccompanied by his wife. I confess I enjoyed doing it—I became a regular mister fixit who could arrange almost anything at the last minute while avoiding any hint of impropriety.

Because the Air Force was generous with its leave time, I was able to visit all the major cities of Western Europe including—especially including—Paris. However, I was not really interested in the politicking and ass kissing necessary to move up to brigadier general. Besides, I was divorced which meant I couldn't do the entertaining and socializing expected of a general. I had put in 20 years in the Air Force, which made me eligible for a nice retirement package, and I was restless. More out of boredom than anything else, I mailed a copy of my résumé to the listed box number.

A call came about two weeks later. On the phone, a curt, cultured voice that seemed to belong to an older woman, said "I'll see you at 3:00 P.M.," gave a day and an address, and hung up before I could say anything. "What the hell," I thought, "she must have seen something on my résumé that appealed to her. I'll go."

Fitzgerald's famous line that the rich are different from you and me began to creep up on me as I approached the barred entrance to the address I had been given. "This is James Welch," I spoke into the telephone box by the gate, "I'm here for a three o'clock interview." There was no reply, but the gate swung open, and I drove what must have been about a hundred yards to the entrance of an imposing but not overwhelming tutor mansion.

A maid in a classic maid's uniform answered the door and led me to what I supposed was called the library where the widow was seated. Although I guessed her to be much older than I was, she was stunning. Thick white hair tastefully coiffed and cut in the back just above the neckline of her tailored vest, small, silver earrings that peeked out from her partially covered ears, delicate, ever so slightly fleshy skin, a full, fascinating, mouth with slightly down turned corners that gave a hint of cruelty, long, unpainted nails, and black leather boots that disappeared under her skirt.

I spoke first, "How shall I address you?" "Madame Whitney," she replied, "or simple madam. And let me say straight off," she continued, "I say what's on my mind and I have a keen nose for bullshit, so take this chair beside me and let's see if you can live up to that inflated résumé you sent me." My stint at NATO where I was often required to move diplomatically and easily among my betters, so-to-speak, seemed to impress her.

"Are you in good shape?" she asked out of the blue.

"Yes I am, in very good shape."

"Good, I like men with hard bodies. Do you drink?"

"Only socially, never alone."

"And do you smoke?"

"No madam."

"Good, because I'm the only one who's allowed to smoke around here."

"And can you give a deep massage?"

"Yes, I'm very good at that."

"Now back to your résumé. Je vois que vous avez écrit que vou parler français courramment. C'est vrai?" [I see that you have written that you speak French fluently. Is that so?]

"Madame Whitney, votre accent est impeccable." [Madame Whitney, your accent is impeccable.]

"Et monsieur, votre accent est horrible! You also claim to know Paris quite well. Do you really? Surely you know all the famous hotels on the right bank, but what is the best hotel on the left bank?"

"I would recommend the Lutetia," I said. "The Germans certainly thought so during the occupation."

"And are you familiar with Boulevard Victor Hugo?"

"I know it quite well"

"Then you may have passed by my favorite tobacconist. This is where my late departed husband bought me this lighter"—she handed it to me—"this silver cigarette case, and this elegant holder"

"Your husband had excellent tastes Madame Whitney."

"Yes, and other rather refined tastes as well."

With this, she opened the cigarette case and took out a long Pall Mall.

"That's the same kind of unfiltered cigarette my mother used to smoke," I blurted out.

"And did she smoke it in a holder?"

"As a matter of fact she did."

"Umm," she murmured as she carefully inserted the cigarette into her holder and leaned forward for a light, reaching out to steady my hand. But just before she lowered the tip of her cigarette into the flame she startled me totally.

"Did it arouse you when your mother smoked with a holder?" My hand gave an involuntary tremble that she sensed immediately. She inhaled deeply and laughed, "I must have hit a sensitive nerve. Adolescent boys are such raging bags of hormones. When my own son was a teenager he could hardly hide the bulge in his pants when he watched me smoke and I'm sure that it still turns him on. I'd often tease him about his little soldier standing at attention in my presence and I'll give him a deep, smoky kiss to show that I appreciated his involuntary salute."

I could tell that she was watching my reactions to this unexpected revelation, but suddenly she moved on to other matters.

I was in a daze for the rest of the interview, transfixed by the erotic impact of this singular woman. Contrary to I had always believed, here was a woman 20 years older than I was whose whole demeanor was magnetic. She exuded sensuality, complete self-confidence, and a sense of superiority—a woman born to command, and, as I was to find out, born to be worshipped and served.

As I remember she was intensely interested in my tastes, my background, how I had handled delicate situations and how I would manage her servants--a cook, a maid, a butler, a gardener/handyman, a stable boy, and a night watchman with dog—should I be hired. Her personal assistant was to have access to her financial records and to screen incoming phone calls and letters, even the most personal ones. This assistant would help her shop, accompany her to gallery openings, intimate dinner parties, to weekends at other country houses, and eat with her when she was alone.

"Obviously," she concluded, "my personal assistant will have my full trust and confidence in return for which I demand total loyalty, the utmost discretion, and complete devotion to my lifestyle. And you can be sure that I will pay an extravagant salary for such a person. Tell me, are the man I am looking for?"

"Yes, I think I am."—What else could I say? I was already in the thrall of this woman, this intoxicating witch who seemed to know my mind and my dark desires better than I would admit to myself.

"Good," she said getting up, "the maid will show you to your quarters where I expect you to be fully installed by the weekend. And by the way, you will notice a two-way intercom connecting my bedroom to yours. It's kept on all the time because when I can't sleep I'll expect you to get me hot tea and to talk if I feel so inclined." Truly, I was to be on duty 24/7.

Madame Whitney said that she expected me make myself familiar with the estate, meet her staff, and to breakfast with her on the patio on Tuesday.

By walking the boundary I estimated that the estate comprised about 300 acres, mostly covered with woods and horse trails. Nearer the house were stables, a riding ring, tennis courts, and an outdoor pool—a complement to the heated indoor pool. The mansion itself was much larger than it looked from the outside. There were probably eight bedrooms including mine, a large kitchen, a pool room, a library where Madame W. had interview me, a drawing room, a large dinning room, a sauna, a small gym with some rather unusual looking equipment including a massage table with tie-down straps, a large kitchen, and detached servant quarters. The four-car garage held a black Mercedes sedan, a yellow Ferrari, and a muddy jeep. A riding mower was in the fourth spot.

.At breakfast on Tuesday, Mme W. was wearing, sandals, and a gauzy sun dress that barely hid her remarkably firm breasts and fleshy legs. As soon as the maid brought us a continental breakfast with steaming café au lait, Mme began by going over the day's schedule: first, we shop for an evening dress, then a light lunch and off to look for boots, home for a swim, and a session with a hair stylist at the mansion in preparation for a dinner with friends that evening to which I was to escort her. With the breakfast dishes cleared away, Madame Whitney handed me the same lighter, cigarette case and holder I had seen in my interview.

"One of the first little services I expect you to perform is that when I want a cigarette you are to place it in my holder, hand it to me, and give me a light."

I could tell that she found the whole transaction erotic and amusing, especially, when she inhaled deeply, drawing the lighter's flame into the end of her cigarette, and exhaled directly into my face.

"Did your mother ever do that to you?" she laughed. Without waiting for an answer she said that she had often teased her teenage son that way and, despite his feeble protests, that this gesture always excited him,

It was clear as our conversation went on that she was intensely interested in the relation I had with my mother when I was an adolescent. I told her that my mother and father had divorced when I was 12 and that he had moved out of our house leaving it to my mother, her sick mother, a live-in nurse, and me.

"Let me guess," purred Mme Whitney, "your mother was young and beautiful."

"Yes, I replied, "and neurotic, and flirtatious, and very sexy."

"And what was you reaction when your mother flirted or brought strange men home with her?"

"Well, frankly, I was jealous."

"And where was your bedroom?"

"Right next to hers."

"A perfect hothouse for your incestuous longings to flourish. Don't try to hide your fantasies from me, James. I know young men too well."

Mme's insights were literally breathtaking and it must have showed in my face and posture. Moreover, all throughout our little dialogue Mme Whitney continued to seduce me with her smoking. When I was in high school, a friend who played the baritone horn told me that his music teacher had said that he had the perfect lips for that instrument. Mme Whitney had the perfect lips and mouth to exploit the full eroticism of a cigarette holder. She would run the tip of her holder over her pearl like teeth pointing the end of her cigarette directly at me as she did so and now and then she would clench her holder between her teeth to free her hands to make some gesture. With each deep inhale her cheeks would hollow slightly so that her cheekbones stood out, and before she exhaled she would part her lips to reveal a mouthful of dense white smoke. I was transfixed and she knew it.

At the dress shop later that morning Mme Whitney was careful to solicit my opinion on each evening gown she was shown, testing me, no doubt, to see if my tastes matched hers. As I suspected, her judgment was flawless.

Lunch was a light affair at a teashop, finished off with me lighting a cigarette in her hypnotic holder.

The boot store she directed me to after lunch was actually a saddlery where the staff seems to know her well. With each pair of boots she tried on she would ask me to smell and feel the leather.

"You must tell me which ones appeal to you James because I intend for you to get to know them well," she announced. It wasn't hard for me to guess what she meant.

I thought we were ready to leave when she strolled over to a display of riding crops, fingering and flexing various ones on display.

"I'll take these three," she finally announced. "I've had several break on me before."

When we reached the door of the mansion, Mme. Whitney announced that she wanted me to join her in the outdoor pool. When I arrived, she was already swimming laps, but stopped long enough to eye me.

"You do have a nice body. Now lets see if you can keep up with me for 20 laps."

I'm a good swimmer but I'll admit that madam surprised me with her stamina. As she climbed out of the pool I had a good glance at her figure, nicely set off by a one-piece bathing suit.

"Not quite what you expected," she laughed. "Swimming and horse back riding does wonders. Keeps my arms strong and everything else tight. Be ready to leave for the dinner at 6:30 in the Ferrari and dress casually—business casual as they say."

The dinner party for 10 was elegantly served. We started off with what the French call an amuse-bouche and a delicious California white wine. The main course was roast duck served with—I could hardly believe my eyes—several bottles of Cheval Blanc 1990. Dessert was fresh fruit served in a delicate pastry shell. Throughout dinner the conversation was witty, naughty, and far ranging. Not unlike dinners I had attended with my boss at NATO headquarters except at these, the wives tacitly assumed the rank of their husbands, which inhibited conversation somewhat. However, here the other guests seemed to ignore the fact that I worked for Madame Whitney who, throughout the evening, was clearly in her element.

It was a beautiful clear, balmy night so everyone adjourned to the terrace once we were through with dessert. Mme. Whitney drew up a chair next to the hostess, Tina Courtney and motioned for me to sit on her other side. After several men lit up my mistress turned to me and said, "I want a cigarette." As I had been instructed, I took her cigarette case and holder from my pocket, carefully inserted a cigarette in the holder, passed the holder to madam, and offered her a light.

Although I was sitting a few feet away from madam and Tina, I had no trouble hearing their stage whispers.

"My, but you have him well trained," marveled Tina.

"My dear, I have just begun to train him."

"But," protested Tina, "he seems so attentive and, I must say, so polished and self assured.

"That's part of the problem, he's too cocksure. I'm going to teach him humility and total devotion. Believe me, Tina, by the time I finish with him he will be responsive to my every whim. I want him to think of nothing from the moment he wakes up to the moment he falls asleep except how to please and protect me. Even when he's asleep I want him to dream about me. I want him to kiss the ground I walk on."

"But Vickie, he seems so strong, so unbending"

"Sweetie, this is precisely what makes his training so appealing and challenging. You know how I love to break high-spirited stallions. Well, believe me, it's a hundred times more fun bending a high-spirited man to my will.

"It sounds to me, Vickie, as if you want to create the perfect lover."

"Oh, you're so naïve, Tina! Lovers are equals. That's not what I want. I want a man like James who on the outside seems like a straight arrow but who has secret weaknesses that I can exploit. And James has two: an obvious smoking fetish—I've noticed that he can't take his eyes off me when I smoke—and a latent Oedipus complex. With me, James can have his cake and eat it too. He can lust after me as a surrogate mother, but be punished for his forbidden desires at the same time. When I'm through conditioning him, he will be begging for me to torture him not only for his sinful thoughts about his mother, but because in his mind he has displeased me in some way. Besides he will find out that the only time he will have my full attention is when I'm disciplining him."

"Disciplining him?" How Vickie?"

"I'll use my riding crop and a lit cigarette. They were very, very effective with my dear, departed Jay."

"Vickie, you are so wicked! God, how I'd love to watch you work!"

"So you may, my sweet. I'll invite you over for a graduation ceremony, so to speak, and you can assist. But I warn you, what I do will probably turn you on in a way you never imagined in your wildest dreams. I've talked to you before about how I love the world of kink and fetish. It's totally addictive. Once you've tasted it you never want to go back to vanilla sex. It's like one of my old lovers so aptly put it. 'Kink and fetish are to sex as the spires and stain glass of a cathedral are to its foundations. It can't stand up without a foundation but who really looks at a foundation when there's so much beauty above'"

"Oh, Vickie, my sweet, I would love to be turned on by you. I could use a little extra-curricular spice in my sex life."

At that point one of the other dinner guests came up to talk to madame and Tina got up to attend to her other guests.

We got back to the mansion close to midnight. I was ready for bed but Vickie—as I now think of her—was obviously quite keyed-up. I had no sooner gotten undressed in my quarters than over the intercom from her bedroom came the command, "I need a massage."

"But Madame, I've just gotten ready for bed."

Big mistake!

"You slip into a pair of shorts and get your ass in here immediately or I'll come in there and give you a taste of my crop that you won't forget!"

"Yes, Madame, I'll be there in a flash."

When I entered her room, Vickie was lying face down, naked, on her very ample bed with her head in her crossed arms that were propped on a pillow.

"I want one of those deep massages that you bragged about in our interview. The oil I like is right there on the bed stand"

Standing on the side of the bed in my shorts I began to massage her shoulders.

"My god, James, how can you ever give me a proper massage like that! I want you to climb on the bed and straddle me so I can feel your full weight when you massage my shoulders." I did as I was ordered.

I began with her neck—that irresistible three inches of soft white flesh—and, slowly gaining confidence, began to move my hands onto her shoulders, first gently squeezing the deltoids and then gradually moved to her trapezium. She let out a long sigh.

"I do love a strong man's hands on my body."

The idea of a deep back massage is to slowly move down the back, kneading each muscle group almost to the point of pain. Judging by her sighs and groans Vickie loved my technique.

"Tell me James, do you know how I became a widow?"

"Well, Madame, one of the staff told me that your husband died of a heart attack in the stables."

"And do you know what caused that heart attack, James?"

"I assume the usual causes—too much good living."

"That's the official story. But let me tell you what really happened. It wasn't long after we were married—both of us for the second time--that I stumbled on Jay's little cache of pornographic literature and DVDs. Not your standard stuff with over-sized tits and pussies anatomically displayed. No, Jay, was into feminine domination, especially whipping and humiliation. Actually, I was more intrigued than shocked by what I found. When I teased him at dinner that night about my little discovery, he got very flustered and tried to convince me that it belonged to his son by his first marriage. Imagine his astonishment when I said that I'd be more than happy to turn his fantasies into reality. I told him to be waiting for me the next day in the stable when I finished my ride. 'And Jay, darling. please bring a set of handcuffs,' I ordered. Riding a horse has always turned me on—you know, James, being able to control a big, strong, virile animal—so when I finish a ride my juices are usually flowing. That first day of our little experiment I made Jay strip and handcuffed him to a post by a stall. I started with my crop on his upper back and then slowly worked my way down to his soft ass. I whipped him until my arm gave out. When I released him he fell to his knees and began to passionately kiss my boots. It was a thrilling, electrifying experience like I had never had before. Flogging Jay every day after my ride became the highlight of my day. We both were insatiable."