Secretary African Style

All this happened quite a few years ago, when I was working in Nigeria.

The office was in Onitsha, the town which spans the Niger, a big slow brown river which forms the border between the West and East of the country. We were on the West bank. Commercially lively enough, but dismal as far as social life went - not many expats and those mostly Greek traders who kept among their own lot. Luckily not there for ever - after doing my time I would be moved to Lagos and my wife could join me.

Anyway there I was, big office, miserable furniture, air conditioning that sent the shivers all over you, but the only alternative that hot muddy heat of the coast - not that we were on the coast, but such was the old way of talking about the country. Quite a nice bungalow - company furniture, a couple of my own pictures on the walls, no point in having a lot of books unless you took special precautions because the termites would gobble them up. You could knock down a nest of the bastards on the lawn one evening and by the time you came back from work the next day they would have stuck up a skyscraper two feet high, with more to come.

Not that that has much to do with what I was meaning to tell you. One of the few small compensations of the place was that I had a really nice secretary, an Ibo from over the east side of the river, though we were on the Yoruba side. Most Nigerian women run to bulk, but she was shapely and trim. Educated. Fantastic English. Not wearing the usual voluminous technicolor robes that people think are native though in fact they were invented in Manchester and the like a hundred years ago, and before we invented them the natives wore nothing much at all. Bathsheba - they often went in for biblical names and whoever chose hers must have had a sense of humour or an insight into her future - wore smart Western office clothes - white buttoned blouse, dark grey or black business suit with a skirt, sometimes with pinstripes into the bargain. She was ambitious, and bright enough to make good on it.

She was a serious girl, but very pretty, very efficient too which was more than you could say for most of them. Not a great talker, unlike most of them again, but chirpy, which meant the office was a cheery place. Early twenties. I liked staring at her as she moved around. Really gave me a lift. Nothing doing with her though - not the type, plus she lived with a large formidable boyfriend I had met a few times, plus the Company wouldn't like it. Didn't give a damn how many of the locals I fucked in general, or for that matter colleague's wives who happened to be up for it, but not from the office - too politically risky if a case for abuse of my position got going. Naturally though I used to stare at her bottom held tight in her tailored skirt or her breasts swelling in her blouse and daydream a bit about what might be if only it could be.

One Friday afternoon, nothing much to do, something to pass the time with till I could hurry off out of the place, I thought I had better check our petty cash. Supposed to do it not less than once a month, but must have been six weeks by then. I always put it off - tedious job. Frustrating too - so many small transactions with dubious documentation, given all the small things we got mixed up in. Bathsheba, good girl, had made out the summary.

One sum caught my eye. I happened to remember it - some stuff I happened to have bought myself from a travelling trader. There was less in the box that I seemed to remember I had got for it. Could I track down any record? I did eventually - a hand scribbled note, where someone had altered a nine to an eight, pretty amateurishly but in the right ink. I would probably would not have noticed if I had not been looking.

I had to settle down to the job. An awkward thought - the only person with access to the records and the cash other than myself was Bathsheba, as she often needed petty cash, and always checked with me what she had used.

She popped her head in. Had I finished? She was no doubt as eager to get away as I was. Maybe more so if......

"Sorry," I said, "Got held up. I'll have to stay on a while. You go off - we can finish this on Monday."

To cut a long story short, a fair number of small sums had vanished - not fraud on a grand scale, more pilfering, and amateurish pilfering at that. A real criminal would have gone for larger game or not bothered. Not something to bother the auditors, who did not go into the petty cash as long as total looked reasonable and, for bigger things, tied in with movements in and out of stock. But we could not have a thief on the premises, particularly anyone trusted with money. Common sense and Company policy took the same line on that.

I was really upset over the week-end. It seemed so out of character for her. A serious girl and, morality apart, too bright to risk her ambitions for so little. But in Nigeria it was the sort of thing that could easily happen, for reasons which I knew about and which will appear in a moment. On the Monday, I had to raise it, in a way that did not assume her guilt - maybe there was another explanation, though I could not think of one.

I had her in, and left her standing in front of my desk, not telling her to sit down as I usually did. I had the necessary papers spread out on the desk in front of her.

"I've been through the petty cash," I said, "There's money missing. And someone has been altering some of the figures in the paperwork, to make it look as if less was due to us." I looked her in the eye. She said nothing.

"Only you and I have access to the box and the paperwork," I said.

Her smooth dark shapely face crumpled up. "You're not going to fire me?" she said.

"Unless we can think of any other explanation I'll have to. You know that. But if you did it, why on earth?"

It all started to come out. She was in tears. I motioned her to sit down. It was a familiar story, sad to say. Her husband did not earn much - he was on the bottom and virtually unpaid rung of one of the two only local solicitors. She was the one in the money, in Nigerian terms. So no sooner did her upcountry relatives hear about that than they moved in on her. She was expected to share with the less fortunate - and most of them were less fortunate. First she had spent a bit too much on this for them, then on that, then she had borrowed, then the traders she had borrowed from wanted their money back - and then she had taken just a little cash, then just a little more. And so on. Drifted into it. I believed her - if she had planned it she was quite capable of making a better job of it.

This sort of thing happened, and to the most unlikely people - we had lost one of our best buyers that way.

"If you fire me, will you be able to give me a reference?"

"How can I? I'll have to tell the police and the Company, to protect myself."

She gazed at me despairingly then looked down. Not just this job gone, but her ambitions with it. Yet what could she do, and for that matter what could I? A long pause. What else could I say?

She looked up into my eyes. "I'll do anything, if you'll let me off just this once. Or let me leave myself with a proper reference. Anything". She gazed imploringly.

I could not help smiling. Do anything for me? Such a corny phrase. Did she mean what it was usually taken to mean? Where had she picked it up, or had she just thought of it in her desperation? At my smile, she looked disconcerted, puzzled and rather affronted.

"Anything?" I said, playing for time and unsure what to say myself. "Well, I don't have to act immediately - I can pretend I found out in a week or two. I'll do something for you, though you won't thank me for it. You do your real best to get rid of those spongers out of your house. I know it's hard. You'll have to tell them you're probably loosing your job but may just have a chance if they push off. I you don't take that chance you'll be penniless anyway and no good to them at all. Which is true. I'll know whether they've left or not. They may try to pop back later, but at least you'll have tackled them once. If you do something about that, we'll have a talk about your anything. You think about it, see if you really mean it."

She gave me a doubtful puzzled look, but I rose, so she more or less had to. No point in prolonging things. I knew I could take care of the missing cash if I had to - repay it myself as the sums were not huge, or fiddle the figures better than she had managed to do.

She did her bit, for herself that is really. I checked up with one of our people who lived nearby. Apparently it was well known they had all descended on her, so why had no-one bothered to tell me, given the well known risks? But now she'd booted almost all of them out. With her boy friend's backing, presumably. I wondered how much she had told him.

Life in the office went on as usual, if in a rather subdued and self-conscious manner, till I said to her, "I hear you've got rid of most of them. Good. You'd better warn your husband you may have to work here this Saturday. Which is where your Anything can come in. Take a seat."

She sat, staring at me with suspicion and a degree of fear.

"So - anything, you said. Is that still the offer? What did you have in mind?"

"What you want. To do with me. You know."

"Like - the obvious thing?"

"The obvious thing, yes. You can fuck me."

It took some spirit for her to get that out.

"I might fancy a bit more than just fucking you."

"How do you mean?"

"I don't know quite what might take my fancy. I promise you this though - no physical damage. I draw the line at that."

This took her aback. She stared at me, taking it in. Exploring it in her imagination, I dare say.

"Is this a one off, or do you mean you want it to go on and on?"

"It can't go on and on because I'd have to report what's happened it in the next week or two. If I don't you're off the hook. If you wanted to leave I'd give you a decent reference."

"How do I know?"

"You'll have to trust me. After all I trusted you. But I'll play fair by you. So it's up to you. Saturday morning - on for it or not on for it.?"

An understandable pause.

"On for it. I have to be. No damage, whatever that may mean," she said dolefully and, without waiting for me to rise, made her way to the door.

"Not office hours - half past nine is fine," I said, "And just in your normal office clothes." I liked the idea of violating her in those, as it was in those that she had set off my daydreams.

Saturday dawned cheerful and bright - or to be literal, as bright as the perpetual haze ever allowed in those parts. A full breakfast - I hoped to need all my energies. Then off to the office, where I had taken care to let the caretaker know he could have the day off as I was there myself. And into my office behind my desk shortly before nine thirty to wait for her.

She appeared on time. I sat motionless. She made her way to the front of my desk, which was as normal, awaiting instructions. I handed her our mortise key. "Go and lock the outer door and come back," I said. We had a mortise lock and a Yale, but only I had the key to the first.

She came back and stood as before. I stared at her - particularly formal to-day, in a black pin striped suit and skirt and the immaculate white blouse. She looked determined, quite strong in fact. She would get on with it and get it over with, she hoped. And why not - I was not out to make her life a misery, just to make the best of a unique piece of luck.

"Turn around, " I said. She duly did. I admired the full curve of her bum.

"Lift your skirt," I said, "Slowly. No - slower than that - we're in no hurry."

Slowly she lifted the black formal skirt. She had a job easing it over her bum, with it being tailored to fit. She had to pull on one side then the other. Suited me. Eventually she got it up round her waist. She was wearing white panties cut round the sides of her bottom, with lace round the top. There's something particularly succulent about white pants on black skin. Her full firm black cheeks shone slightly - they tend to use some sort of oil, to preserve their skins in the heat.

"Very appealing," I said. She meanwhile said nothing, which suited me fine - for the moment I was interested in her bottom not her conversation. "Bend over and touch your toes. Now part your legs." Simple stuff, but pleasing, her pants clasped tight around the full pouch of her sex and a few wiry black hairs at the sides shown up by the white.

I did not have a set program - just a few ideas and go with the flow. I rolled my chair back. "You'd better come and lie across my lap", I said, "Keep that skirt up."

She came round the edge of the desk, her skirt up round her waist and her dignity somewhat diminished thereby, but less so than you might think given her determined expression. She lay across my lap, head hanging down to my left, hands on the floor in front of her, high healed black shoes just touching the floor on the other side, and the two cheeks of that delectable bottom right there in front of me,, naked except for her pants. My idea had been to spank her, with some words about her deserving her punishment. But in the event the words seemed hopelessly corny. If I spanked her that was not so she could get punished but so I could enjoy myself. First though, faced with those cheeks, I did not want to spank them but to get acquainted with them. I slid my hands over the satin and lace of her pants, pushed down into her crack, tight not because she was clenching herself but simply from youth and fitness. I ran my fingers up and down over the white, pressing them into the hollow where her anus must lie. Then I stroked up her thighs then slid under her pants to feel the twin creases at the base of her cheeks, and moved up over her slopes and fullnesses. The slightly grainy, sticky feel their skins have, because of the oil or whatever. I gripped her cheeks tight in my fists, at which she squeaked. I clenched on them, took possession of them. I thrust under her pants deep into her crack, felt the rougher skin around her anus, ran up and down the deep valley, slightly sweaty from the heat, and over ridges and hollows of her anus itself.. There under my hands - indescribably real, after imagining her often enough.

I bunched her pants into her crack, just the one vivid rope of white in blackness, and slapped her right cheek, hard. A slightly pale handprint appeared on her dark skin and faded fast. That stimulated me. I slapped her good and hard again and again till my palm hurt, probably more than her bum. I could have done with her giving a few shrieks but she was not going to descend to that. I could order a few screeches out of her of course, but they would lack authenticity.

Anyway, it was the crack of her bum that drew my attention. I tugged her pants down to the tops of her thighs, dragging them under her stomach.

"Pull your cheeks open." I said.

She did as she was told. How I loved it all - the deep smooth dark hollow n which her anus was set, then the black ribs and valleys of the thing itself, and the little round nub in the middle, slightly raised, with a dark hollow at its centre. It attracted me more than he cunt, more intimate and private. I rubbed round and round the ridges with my forefinger, then I stuck it in my mouth, wetted it, and shoved it into the hollow to wiggle it through the tight barrier and inside her. That drew a startled, "Oh, ugh, oh", from her then silence again. Something she hadn't reckoned on?

I looked down on the vista and twisted and turned my finger, feeling a placid unhurried contentment, as one might feel at a real achievement in one's life, which in fact it was, having her over my knee and I doing whatever I wanted with her.

What about her cunt? A change of approach was called for.

"Take your knickers and skirt off," I said, "Then go and sit in the arm chair."

She stood, slid off the knickers, unzipped the skirt, and with some difficulty got it off. Bare bottomed but still in her high heeled black shoes and her black jacket and her blouse, she went and sat in the chair. She avoided looking me in the eye.

"Cock your legs up over the arms," I said, "Show me your cunt."

She did. "Come forward a bit," I said, "Push your legs out more. I want to see the lot."

She did as she was told. She had a lovely cunt - a perfect neat oval, with just the shaft of her clit visible between her lips at the top. Thick crinkly black hair in a triangle on her mound, pointing down into her cunt, and sparser crinkles on her lips, which were fat and full. I don't like the shaved cunts which have come into fashion since - poor bald irregular insignificant flaps. It's the move from the urbanity of cared for skin to the primeval, the rank, the throwback that turns me on.

"Open it up for me," I said.

She pulled the two lips open with her hands. Still not a word. She had obviously decided to go along with what was wanted. The depths of her cunt were deep glistening crimson, like the fires of a volcano at the foot of black cliffs.

"Rub your clit," I said.

She put her forefinger there.

"You're not rubbing it," I said, "The tip's not moving. Do it right. And shove your finger up your hole. Masturbate so I can watch you. Get yourself wet, then you won't get sore when I fuck you. Do your best. Think beautiful thoughts."

I have no idea what she thought, but she did close her eyes and worked away at herself with a reasonable display of verisimilitude. When she took time off from her clit to rub her finger round and round the entrance to her hole she seemed to get her juices going and the crimson shone the brighter."

"Stuff a finger up your arse," I said. Her face winced and scowled, but she wetted her forefinger in her cunt, lifted her bum to get her hand round, and twiddled and twisted the start of her forefinger into herself.

"Get it right up," I said. I enjoyed watching her wriggle and ease it up her, and her face as it scowled the while. She got it right up, but thereby I lost the view as her hand got in the way.

"OK," I said. "That's enough. Lie down on the floor on your back. Pull your knees right up - tuck them up to your armpits."

It was a wonderful sight, Bathsheba my respectable inaccessible secretary self-trussed like a chicken, her bottom raised from the floor because her knees were right back, with her calves and black shoes waving over her head. And her cunt shoved up towards me, proffered and waiting for me to attend to it. It was all the more titillating because of the blouse and the jacket she still had on, as respectable as could be, with her thatch of black hair and her cunt just beneath it. Her cunt had mostly closed up again, but not quite, like a door ajar, with a streak of crimson showing inside. Her efforts must have had some affect on it.

I've never gone in much for blow jobs. I was quite encouraged enough standing over her looking down at her. In a leisurely way I unbuckled my belt, slipped off my trousers and pants along with the loose espadrilles I was wearing, and stroked my cock.

But why rush into the fuck? I moved forwards and put my knees on each side of her head. "You can drop your legs for now," I said, "Just look up at me." And she did - I looked down at her face and my balls and my arse hanging close over it.

"Take one of my balls into your mouth," I said, "Gently. Give it a soft suck."

She had to open her mouth wide, and I dipped myself into it - not for nothing is the practise called teabagging. She sucked and licked. I wondered if she had ever done this before. No way of telling.

I pulled out and settled my arse over her. "Lick my arse hole good and hard," I said. I felt rather pleased with myself that I had washed it carefully that morning - sensitive fellow.