I almost whooped when I got the letter. 

There was I, single, 30 and jobless following the collapse of the company where I had worked as PA to the Managing Director. He was a sweet man, fifty or so and devotedly married to a woman of sixty who had borne him three deeply loved daughters. I almost became a part of his family, welcomed by wife and children and accepted. The day I received my redundancy notice we had wept quietly together, he and I. He’d given me the letter but I hadn’t needed to open it; we both knew the bad news.

And now, this morning I had received the email that said I had a new job.

Angela Morton, a well-known designer of jewellery to the better jewellery companies and to private clients had advertised in a national fortnightly magazine. I’d seen the ad because, unusually, I was reading said magazine and remembered it had a job section.

‘Personal Assistant required for bad-tempered, self-satisfied, over-bearing and female jewellery designer. Crap wages, conditions and treatment. It might be fun though.’ Irresistible. I had immediately written a letter of application.

‘Dear Madam

Your personal qualities as described in your advertisement mark you out as more pleasant than most bosses. Similarly the wages, conditions and treatment afforded a PA sound better than typical.

Fun I get in my private life but do not object if it arises at work too.

I have enclosed my CV and a reference from my previous employer but I suspect you will place most importance on your own impressions and I’d very much like to be considered for the position.’

I answered my phone a couple of days later while I was wiping cat shit off the kitchen floor. Cloudsley, my cat and named after a famous naval Admiral, had disgraced himself again.

‘Hi, I’m Angela Morton. You wrote in response to my ad in the Eye?’

I don’t normally get flustered but with a rag full of cat shit, on my knees and nearly puking from the smell it was a close thing. Recovering my composure she invited me to meet her over coffee for an interview.

‘I don’t do formal,’ she said in a voice which seemed to have a constant hint of a smile in it.

We met the following afternoon in a hotel lounge near the main railway station. It was pleasant and relatively quiet, like the rest of my home city. She’d said she’d be wearing a blue dress but frankly that wasn’t accurate. Sure, it was blue and a dress but it was a statement. To understand I need to describe Ms Morton and you’ll need to forgive me if I sound a bit like a teen in love.

Angela Morton is just over six feet tall. She has ash blond hair which is cut to frame her slightly too long face and the colour somehow highlights her incredibly blue eyes. Her nose is longer than it should be too, her cheek bones prominent and fine, her chin a little too pointed. Her mouth is wide, constantly uplifted at either end and, when open, reveals even, small teeth of a brilliant white.

Her neck is long and the skin flawless.

Her shoulders are wide like a swimmer’s and her figure slender, a small bust, a nipped waist and slim hips beneath which legs of beautiful proportion seem to go on for ever. Her hands are delicate with long, fine fingers. Do you get the picture?

Now, the dress. Blue it most certainly is but it is pale blue in the bodice and tight at the waist beneath which it falls not like a skirt but like a waterfall of the darkest blue with hints of white foam and streaks of yellow sunlight reflected in the water as it tumbles over the rocks of her knees to land at the grey shoes, grey like water-polished pebbles with heels like stainless nails.

I had gone for PA drab. Grey skirt, white blouse, black stockings, black shoes. I had considered her artistic calling and debated something more flamboyant but had decided to be efficient and professional but tidy. I had allowed a little licence by wearing a necklace my dad had given me when I was twenty-one. It is a circlet of stones from a beach, each with a depth of colour and variety of shape to complement its neighbour. It was a good choice as it transpired.

I had barely said hello, barely sat down when she said, ‘May I look at your necklace?’

I explained its provenance, removed it and passed it to her. She smiled.

‘It’s one of mine.’ My genuine surprise must have been apparent. I had attempted to say that I had no idea and would not have worn it had I known lest she think I was ingratiating myself but she waved my protest aside.

‘Never apologise for good taste.’ She was captivating. The interview, if such it was, flowed like the silk of her dress which, incidentally, I complimented. I rather wished I hadn’t in a way because it was one of her designs too and it felt like I was creeping. She didn’t seem to care.

‘I loved your letter,’ she said. ‘I got dozens of the normal, boring sort but I was impressed that yours picked up the tone of my ad. I want someone with a sense of humour, someone who finds chaos interesting rather than daunting, pressure stimulating not scary.’ I was guarded in my replies. It would have been easy to say, ‘that’s me, that’s me’ then not come up to proof.

Her mobile was the punctuation of our meeting. She never apologised for answering it, just shrugged and smiled and swore at the caller. When we left each other I had no idea if I’d got the job or bored her witless.

Her email:

Eliza

If you want the job it’s yours, subject to two conditions. The first is that you never ever wear that dreadful grey skirt again. The second is that if ever you feel things aren’t working you tell me.

I am absolutely hopeless at any sort of empathy and I will bully you but you must feel able to tell me to fuck off.

Don’t bother replying to this. If you want the job, turn up on Monday at 8.30.

Red would suit you best.

AM

I was there before 8.30 and defiantly wearing blue.

There followed an hour of hectic learning: files are here, contact numbers here, silversmiths here, lav here and you have to pump the handle or it won’t work, the bank manager is a bastard, I like assam tea and don’t tell me a PA doesn’t make tea or you’re fired, I’m gay so don’t try match making, never NEVER give me chocolate or I’ll become hyperactive and attempt to rape you, I’m off to a meeting, best of luck.

She called me at lunchtime. ‘Blue suits you too and I admire independence. Did you get the toilet to work?’

I told her about a couple of calls I’d taken and had put in her diary. She seemed uninterested.

‘Book me a flight to Paris for tomorrow morning as early as you can, business class. Doesn’t matter how much it costs I have to be there earliest. Fancy dinner tonight?’

I mentioned I had to feed Cloudsley.

‘Fuck the cat, feed the bugger when you get home.’ So I did.

Over dinner at a small and local Italian restaurant she passed me a drawing. The subject’s face was mine, the attire not mine, nor the jewellery which adorned her.

‘I did this in the cab this morning. You have good bone structure and your hair and eyes can stand competition. I told you you’d look good in red!’

The red dress was a cascade of fabric but it was slit at the lower leg and also very revealing around the tits. I knew that at some point she was going to fuck me and my knickers were suddenly very, very wet. That point was not, however, that evening and, in my cab home, I rather wished it had been. In bed that night I lifted my hips to a delicious orgasm and promised to wear red the next day she was in the office.

It has to be said that her advert spoke the truth. She was over bearing and bad tempered. She did bully but on one occasion when she was giving me a bit of a going over, I slammed my hands on my desk and said, ‘fuck off.’ She put her hands on my shoulders, kissed my cheek and said, ‘how rude,’

It was when she was going to a meeting in Paris yet again that she suggested I join her. I was delighted of course and agreed immediately. It was arranged we’d meet at Bristol airport, our nearest. We were travelling business class and so had use of the executive lounge which sounds posh but isn’t. I had arrived in the lounge first and poured her a glass of champagne knowing she was close behind. Next to the glass I placed a small Belgian chocolate.

*

The Hotel du Roi is a beautiful place, sumptuous, defiantly Gallic, quirky and grossly overpriced. It is her favourite. Two rooms on different floors had been booked and we checked in and repaired to our rooms to unpack, clean up and prepare for a quiet drink followed by dinner before the travails of the following day.

I wore red. I took a long time showering, dressing and making up – not much but a bit on the eyes and lips and cheeks.

The bar was crowded so we took our drinks out onto the terrace where she lit a long, slender cigarette which she passed to me before lighting another for herself. I smoke on average three cigarettes a year but I took this one and savoured it. She was dressed beautifully as usual. She wore a pencil skirt in mauve, topped with a white silk camisole under a black leather underbust corset that lifted her small breasts a little. I could see the dark of her nipples faintly, like shadows, under the silk. She was wearing the heels like nails again.

We sat close together at a small glass topped table, our knees almost touching.

She said softly, ‘You gave me chocolate and you’re wearing a red dress.’

I looked into her eyes. ‘I’m wearing red knickers too.’

Her face assumed a look of disappointment and I suddenly felt that I had gone beyond some unwritten barrier.

‘So, I don’t have to rape you? You’ll come quietly?’ Her voice was a husky whisper.

Relief ran through me.

‘Not sure about quietly.’ She has such a dirty, dirty laugh.

We went to her room. I never did get a dinner that evening.

*

There was nothing hasty. She closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, looking at me with a sort of predatory expression. I tried to be casual and placed my bag on a table, looking into those amazing eyes. I tried, but it wasn’t easy under her intense gaze.

‘Your mouth is slightly open, Eliza. That usually suggests arousal?’

I smiled at her and nodded, words failed me. She just leant against that door and her hand ran up over her breasts, slowly. Then, after what seemed minutes she rather languidly stood upright and moved to stand directly in front of me. There was no doubt as to who was taking the lead. She held my eyes but her hands moved to rest on my shoulders.

‘We are both big girls. This must not spoil our working relationship but enhance it. We don’t make a secret of it, if it endures; we don’t flaunt it, we just enjoy it?’

It was a statement with a question in it. I nodded again.

I couldn’t have spoken much anyway for it was then that her mouth made contact with mine. It was a soft kiss, and the warmth of it enveloped me as eventually so did her arms. It wasn’t a hug, it was a caress, from my shoulders, around my back and down to my waist. Then her hands slowly moved up my arms and I allowed my hands to mirror hers, roaming over her, barely touching but so, so aware of the silk and the leather. The kiss went on and on. It was a slowly developing kiss; one that starts as a gentle brushing of lips then, contact never lost, gathers impetus as my mouth, already open as she had remarked, felt the ingress of her tongue. First the tip grazed the tip of my own, then moved up to touch my teeth, then further to touch the top of my palate and ultimately to stroke all around inside me. It felt as if my mouth was my pussy and her tongue was entering me there.

We’re all different so perhaps this does not resonate with you but as her tongue took possession of my mouth so my pussy flowered. I could actually feel myself opening, swelling and the unmistakeable sensation of warm, wet, viscous fluid crept from between my folds.

I do not remember my dress being undone but I do recall so clearly the first time her hand touched my breasts, perhaps more than any first touch. She had drawn away from me and she looked down at my now naked upper body and with a look of almost reverence she slowly lifted her hand, tentatively almost, to my right breast. She didn’t just touch it, she traced it, examined it as if she were casting the form of it to her memory. Then she leant down and I felt the heat of her breath on my nipple before her tongue curled around it. As she did this her free hand slid up under the skirt of my dress and stroked my thigh. I have never wanted so much to settle onto a hand, to feel it against my pussy, to feel it cup me but she was not in a hurry as I was. She stopped abruptly and stood erect, looking down at me, her six foot height enhanced by those heels.

‘Take off your dress.’

It wasn’t like some dominatrix demanding me to, more like someone who just wanted to see me. I let it fall to pool at my feet and she smiled. There I was naked but for those red knickers and she fully dressed still. The feeling was quite incredible.

She stepped back and slowly began to undress. I watched transfixed as the corset was unlaced, the camisole raised over her breasts, the skirt undone and allowed to fall. She was completely naked beneath and she lewdly opened her legs and stroked her finely trimmed pussy. I could see, as if through a close up lens, her finger open her lips, the moisture on her fingertip. I was captivated. The finger didn’t enter her but stroked, just as I wanted to stroke, as I wanted my tongue to curl between them and taste her. I moved in to her and she put her hand flat on my breastbone.

‘Wait. I want to savour this.’

What was I supposed to do? I waited. Suddenly she removed her hand and placing a hand on my shoulder she walked around behind me. She pulled my hair back behind my ears, her hands caressing my neck and shoulders and leant in to kiss me on the bare skin of my nape. Then, her mouth on my neck, she caressed my breasts and I felt her body move behind me, close so that her hard nipples pressed into me. One hand remained on my breast, the other slid down over my belly and stopped flat on my mound. I let my head fall back onto her shoulder and relished the wonderful sensuousness of it all. The hands remained unmoving as her lips and tongue tantalised the skin of my throat, my neck, my shoulders and just under the hairline. I moved my hands so they touched her flanks.

The hand on my mound moved languidly around my hip and onto my buttock and stroked me. I tried to turn to kiss her but she was having none of that. Silently she prevented me from moving then her hand slipped around me again and this time did not hesitate but went straight to my pussy and cupped me and I heard a soft moan of pleasure as she discovered my moisture and readiness. That seemed to change her demeanour and she hastily turned me and took my mouth full on while her finger curled into me. I was not going to wait any longer and my hand went to her treasure and echoed her movements, gently stroking her lips then curling slowly into her.

I was feeling urgent, eager and it seemed she was becoming the same. Her finger was more intrusive, her kiss more passionate and we did a sort of clumsy dance to the foot of the bed where, at last, we fell mouths locked onto the soft covers. We dragged each other so we were side by side on the bed and what followed was simply the most unforgettable consummation. So unforgettable was it that I cannot remember the order of things. It was a blur of flesh, hair, fingers, tongues. One minute I seemed to be astride her, the next buried beneath her. My mouth was at hers, then her pussy was pressing onto my nose. I do recall the final, back arching moments. We were sitting, our pussies kissing, our hands on each others shoulders as our pelvises worked in circles and our eyes were locked. Her tongue was between her lips and her eyes had a glaze, a sort of far off look and yet held me tight. I don’t remember any words or sounds although I strongly suspect everyone else in the Hotel du Roi did. The only time I lost eye contact with her was when her climax came and she closed her eyes, let her head fall back and her mouth open.

The next thing I remember was lying enfolded in her arms, my face in her hair and her wet thigh across my own. We lay like that for what seemed hours.

‘I need a shower!’

I watched as her beautiful arse swayed to the bathroom.

I got out of bed and tidied the clothes that we had left strewn on the floor. I pushed my hair back and went through to the bathroom where she was standing in the shower and I tapped on the glass screen. She removed her hands from her face and smiled through the cascade and curled a finger in invitation. I slid back the screen and joined her. There we stood under the hot stream and kissed and soaped and stroked. She used a soapy thigh to wash between my legs and a soapy finger to delve between my buttocks and, yes, slither just a knuckle’s length into me. That caused me to gasp, a mix of surprise and pleasure, into her mouth.

We dried off and returned, hand in hand to the bedroom and slid between the crisp sheets, curled together and slept a sleep interrupted by further bouts of glorious lovemaking, some energetic, some languorous but all beautiful.