PA Fantasy (Part 4)

It’s several weeks later and I’m mostly settled into my new role. 5:45pm and I step out of the lift at City Social. I’ve decided on a smart but fitted Victoria Beckham pencil dress, a simple nude Casadei pump, and a Max Mara 108801 coat slung over my shoulders. At Mr Hardigains request, underneath I am wearing a tiny, platinum butt plug, and no underwear.I notice Mr Hardigain hunched over his usual dirty martini at the bar, and strut towards him, tapping him on the shoulder, with an immaculately manicured nail.“Oh!” He looks over his shoulder and turns around “You’re early! You look fantastic…” in a deliberately conspicuous advance, he grabs my bottom with both hands, squeezing and groping several times, whilst the rest of the restaurant pretends not to look. Our waiter arrives and guides us to our table, but just as we pass the first set of banquettes, I notice with the corner of my eye“Mersault!” Hardigain exclaims “Fancy seeing you here!” a steely, fake smile spreading across a face otherwise pained with irritation.“Hello Billie!” he replies, completely ignoring Mr Hardigains greeting “You are looking… ah, sensationale!”I reach out to shake his hand but he gently guides it towards his mouth and kisses it instead “Enchanté, Billie” he whispers, kissing my hand again.The table shifts uncomfortably, glancing at Mr Hardigain, who looks on seemingly cooly, but not cooly enough to hide an unmistakable tinge of bright purple jealousy flushed across his face.I laugh, girlishly “Anyway, Mr Mersault, a pleasure to see you again -“Mr Hardigain takes my hand and leads me swiftly away towards our table.We sit down, silent for a few moments. I wonder if I should say something but sense it’s probably best to stay quiet. I order a glass of LP Rosé, and for Mr Hardigan, another dirty martini. I excuse myself to the bathroom, under the pretence of needing to powder my nose.“You don’t need makeup.” He says, angrily (not really at me, but perhaps at his biggest business rivals second not so subtle attempt at making a pass at me)“You don’t need a six bedroom house with tennis court in the Surrey Hills” I shoot back, grinning. “You don’t even play tennis!”“How did you know about that?”“It was in your emails. You gave Savills your work email instead of the personal one. You’re always doing that by the way, last week I was going through the urgent folder and there’s about ten from Aston Martin asking how you want the car specced.”“Well,” he smiles back “That is urgent”.I snatch up by handbag and make my way to the bathroom, each table of boring business diners, stealing a glance as I wiggle by. I push my way through the double doors, my stiletto skidding slightly on the brilliantly polished floor, the door swinging and narrowly missing a gentleman in a white shirt, no tie, and perfectly pressed navy trousers.“I beg your pardon – sorr- oh -“It’s Mersault of course.I stop in my tracks, surveying him with distaste. He grins.“Billie! A pleasure again. We must stop meeting like this!”I blink at him, coldly.“Coucou…” he steps closer to me. Grabbing my hand gently yet firmly enough for me not to attempt pulling away, and brings it towards his crotch. I feel his rock hard throbbing cock beneath my palm. He lets go and I swiftly withdraw my hand.“You know. Mr Hardigain, he is not forever” Mr Mersault takes another step towards me: a kind of contactless violation, getting right in my space. A smattering of anxious sweat prickles on my upper lip.“He will sell the business in 2, 3 years then what will become of you? He has the perfect life. He already has a wife. Is wife is very beautiful…”“I’m sure she is.” I say curtly, glaring up at him.“An ex ballet dancer. Very slim. Very tall.” He says deliberately looking down on me as if I were 2 feet tall. “Really, the man has the perfect life. Nice house. Nice business. His PA is the biggest slut in the city. But what do you have?”Says Mersault, displaying his curious ability to make almost anyone impossibly uncomfortable.“He got you this?”He asks pointing to my necklace, an 18 karat Van Cleef pendant encrusted with VVS1 diamond, shining brilliantly under the restaurant lightsHe takes a further step towards me, now as close as he could possibly be. I don’t step back.“Yes. Yes he did” I say, a wave of hot and inexplicable anger passing over me“Pah!” Mersault laughs, a bitter look  “Is nothing. He will give you these things to try and keep you. But I can give you other things Billie. I can teach you ow to make your own money. I can can teach you how to invest. Ow to buy stocks. How to become a boss yourself.”“Or, just a thought Mr Mersault and it may be something you haven’t considered… but an alternative option is you could always just fuck right off and leave me alone.”“Ah,” he says casually, stepping back. “Think about it.”He hands me a business card.“Dont trust Hardigain.” He says “He is not all he appears.”“It’s rather curious Mr Mersualt he said the exact same thing about you.” I retort, in my most brilliantly clean English accent. “An ‘obnoxious cunt who would sell his own mother for a trading tip’ I believe were his words, if I remember correctly”.“Mais biensur” Mersault smiles and nods, turning to head back to his table. But before he does –“Billie?” He says, as if as an afterthought, his hand holding the door ajar, revealing a truly ugly and ostentatious Frank Muller watch. “I will heve you. One day.” He says, dropping all pleasantness and politeness, looking at my body with an aggressive hunger“And when I have you, I will fuck you in that ass all night.”So taken aback am I by this approach, I stand there completely unable to think of a suitable response. I’m disgusted, obviously… sort of. He straightens his shirt sleeve, turns and leaves, the door swinging casually behind him.By the time I reach the bathroom my nose really does need powdering, but something else is bothering me.I sit in a cubicle, my heart pounding, my knees pressed firmly together.Why? I ask myself, almost saying it out loud. Why do I feel so deeply aroused by Mr Mersault?I indulge myself in imagining us in a beautiful hotel suite, me in a a beautiful lingerie set with stockings and suspenders with my face pushed into a pillow and my ass in the air..Jesus.I powder my nose quickly and return to the table.Mr Hardigain is on his third martini. “I’ve ordered us the tasting menu” he says “Was very good the last two times I had it and yes I’ve gotten you the truffle supplement.”“You know me too well!” I flash him a big, pretty smile, my hand sliding up his thigh under the table, and gently fondling his cock“Yes I do you you too well. Which is why I feel the need to say Billie, if you shag that French bastard you are fired and I will see to it myself that you are personally ruined beyond the point of recovery.”My hand freezes mid motion.“You are under contract. Don’t you ever forget that.” Mr Hardigain downs his third martini in one go. “Now that’s quite enough of all that” he says “You’ve done an excellent job this month so I’ve bought you a little something. He nods towards a small orange gift bag on the spare seat. “Go on, open it.”I place the bag on the table, and lift out a small box, the unmistakable orange and brown hues of Hermes, contrasting with the stark white tablecloth. A few people on nearby tables look over, curiously. I pull the ribbon, then open the box. Inside is a perfectly folded silk scarf, I gently lift it out, holding it up to admire the pattern. It’s my favourite colour palate, mellow browns and earthy tones, and looking closely, intricately embroidered are hundreds of tiny –“- I remembered you said you love Bradley Theodore. Hermes partnered with him to make just 100 of these, if you look closely they’ve stiched in his signature 400 times by hand.”“Wow! Thank you! It’s beautiful”“Like you. I…” Mr Hardigan carefully refolds the scarf and puts it back inside the box. His face flushes deep purple “I am very fond of you Billie.”I reach over and plant a massive soft kiss on his lips, then embrace him in a hug, over his shoulder my eye, for the shortest of moments, making contact with Mr Mersault, who just so happens to be looking over from the other side of the room.After our meal (an excellent meal with fabulous wine pairings) I take my Uber home to my now upgraded flat in Marylebone. I pull my heels and dress off, leaving the butt plug in and slipping into a silk La Perla dressing gown. I pour myself a glass of Chablis, recline on the sofa, and sigh.“Caught Between Two Narcissists, a memoir” I joke to myself. What could possibly go wrong? No time to worry about that now, I put on Chefs Table and spend the next hour enthralled in the delightful intricacies of Thailands street food scene. By the time the episode is over it’s gone 1am, time for bed. Hair tied up and makeup removed, and now in nothing but an old grey and very washed out Ralph Lauren t shirt, I head to bed. Whilst setting my alarm a WhatsApp message flashes up on my screen from a +33 number I don’t recognise. It reads:“I’m outside.”My stomach turns. A stalker? Surely not. Postman? Too late. Hardigain? He has to be in by 12. Lenses now removed, I feel around in my bedside cabinet for my glasses, and tiptoe to the front room. As inconspicuously as I can I very slowly open just a millimeter of a crack in the blinds, a beady eye surveying the street below my 2nd floor window. Parked outside is a Porsche 912, with the number plate I can just about make out to read “MSLT 912”. A figure shrouded in the darkness looks directly up towards where the tiny crack in the blind has released a beam of light. He smiles, waves. Immediately I close the gap in the blind, breathless. My back to the window, that uncomfortable feeling returning to me.Mr Mersault!My phone buzzes in my hand. I look down and a message flashes across the screen.“Open the door.”I wait in my living room for a moment unsure of what to do. I briefly consider Mr Hardigains words, but the excitement gets the better of me and almost unconsciously I feel myself tiptoe downstairs to the front door, carefully opening it.“Get in!” I whisper “You’ll wake my neighbours up!”Without my heels Mr Mersault towers over me in an intimidating fashion. I blink up at him through my glasses, pulling the hairband from my in a desperate attempt to look more attractive. I don’t like him of course, but a part of me would like for him to like me.He follows me upstairs; I flick the light on and feel suddenly embarrassed at all my girly nonsense strewn everywhere – lipsticks and fashion magazines, fluffy scatter cushions and in one corner a “Manifestation Board” that I pray silently that he won’t notice- but of course he does.“What is this?” He says, spotting the pinboard overloaded with stick on images of my hopes.I feel every hair on my body prickle with deep embarrassment.“It’s nothing, I -“Too late, Mersault is at the board, surveying it with a mild amusement. His eyes glance over the many images: The Maldives, pristine vintage Mercedes SLs, of big houses in the countryside with huge kitchens and acres of land, a Safari in South Africa. He looks to the bottom corner of the pinboard, at photos of big diamond rings, dinner at Noma, a beautiful silver greyhound, an Eco Lodge in New Zealand.“So this is where you live…”He says, turning around and looking at my apartment as if it were a cheap Motel. “And these… these are your dreams…” he glances over his shoulder at my Manifestation Board.I stand there foolishly in my washed out t shirt.“I don’t look very nice right now.” I say clumsily, like a stupid child. I feel suddenly self conscious, I should have never opened that door. I’m in my own home but he has the upper hand so completely that I feel as if the space were his.“I prefer natural look anyway” Mr Mersault steps towards me, gently removed my glasses and puts them to one side“I don’t care what you prefer” I lie.We both know what’s going to happen, but I try to hold out, thinking of my contractual obligations to Mr Hardigain, who after all has been so good to me. Mersault steps closer to me, backing me slowly into a corner. Cornered, I stare defiantly, the cool of the buttplug pressing against my flesh.

 

 

To be continued…