Category Archives: Fiction
Mister McIntyre’s Secret
It’s 11:45 and that means that Mister McIntyre is… he is in his meeting. He is in his hotel room right now. He is doing things, things that make me bite my lip just thinking about. How am I supposed to work? How am I supposed to act like nothing is going on. Right now at the Pierre Hotel he is fucking her. Right now he is doing it. Are they naked? Does he take off his socks? Does he make noise?
“Want to go to lunch with us Abigail?”
It’s Paula and Regina. Nice girls, but I’m nervous that someone will call. Something might happen. I have to guard the secrets.
“Oh, no thanks, I brought my lunch.”
They shrugged and giggled to each other. Whispering some little joke. Who cares what they think. Paula had a nose like a pig and her boss was that drunk Mister Grifford. Regina was nice enough, but she wasn’t very bright.
The phone ring and I took a deep breath before I picked it up.
“Fitzgerald Investment Group, Mister McIntyre’s office.”
Silence on the line. A sigh. More silence.
“Douglas McIntyre’s office, may I help you?” I said, a little louder.
“Hello. You’re the secretary, right?”
I knew it was her. I never heard her voice, but I knew. My heart was racing again. One of his secrets come to life with a real voice. Talking to me.
“Y.. yes. This is Abigail. How can I help you?”
There was a low chuckle.
“He’s not in, is he?” her voice was velvet. It made her jealous.
“N.. no. May I ask who’s calling?”
A long pause.
“You know who’s calling. I’m not going to be able to make my appointment and I don’t have the hotel’s number handy.”
Marcy Peterson. Daughter of a client. The spoiled brat.
“I’ll um, I’ll find Mister McIntyre and let him know… Miss Peterson.” my voice lowering to a whisper.
“My, but you are the good secretary.” her honey sarcastic voice purred with the trappings of a rich Connecticut accent. “I suppose you schedule all of Mister McIntyre’s affairs.”
I just sort of let out a little meep. What can you say to that? Secrets are supposed to be secret. Notes in the calendar. Instructions from Mister McIntyre. They aren’t supposed to call.
“I.. I’ll let him know, Ma’am.”
“How old are you… Abby isn’t it?”
I should have just hung up. Would that be rude? People walked by my desk and I wondered what they thought. I was holding on to the phone with both hands. I tried to calm down. Put one hand on the desk. Tried to act like this was just another phone call.
“Well, just a little thing. From your voice I would have said twenty at most. Is it embarrassing? Knowing where your boss goes at lunch? He told me once you were very trustworthy and obedient to the last. It made you sound like a puppy.”
My mouth opened but no words came out. He talked about me? What did he say? He actually sat there with his mistress and said “That Abigail is an obedient secretary.”?
“I try my best.” I squeaked.
She hung up. I numbly dialed the hotel.
“Mister Jefferson, room 732, please.”
It rang several times. My heart can’t take this. It never seems to slow down. It’s no wonder I go home and fall asleep.
“Yes?” his slow deep voice.
“Um, it’s um… your 11:30 appointment had to cancel, sir.”
“She called the office?” he sounded concerned.
“That’s…” he trailed off. “I’ll be back in the office in 15 minutes.”
Back to his office, straighten things up. Make sure everything it set for his meeting. Make sure he has his notes.
Standing in his office with the door closed the day finally got to me. He would be back any minute. Pulling up my skirt and reaching down my panties I am soaked through and through. How do I get this bad? How do I let myself get this worked up?
One hand on his desk and one hand in the tight constraints of my panties and pantyhose. Fast fast. He might come back. Fast his footsteps will be in the hallway any minute. Those gray blue eyes, that chiseled chin, those huge hands. I bet his hands are twice the size of mine. His fingers twice as thick.
Rubbing and rubbing, but I am quiet as a mouse. I would be quiet if he needed me to come into his office. I wouldn’t say a word if he bent me over his desk. I’d be his. His anything. I’d never cancel.
My fist on his hard wood desk as I come and come.
Go to the bathroom. Don’t look up at anyone. Wash my hands, fix my lipstick.
Breath Abigail. Breath.
I’m at my desk just as he gets in.
“Abby, I’m going to need some lunch. Turkey Club. Get yourself…” he stopped, examining me as he got to his door.
“You look a little flushed, everything alright?”
I squirm. His eyes on me. He is looking me over. What can he see?
“Oh, I’m alright.” I laugh awkwardly.
Sitting at my desk before he gets to the office I cross my legs and watch helplessly as they bounce nervously.
Every Monday it’s the same. I don’t know why. I get in early, sort the mail, clean things up, change my typewriter ribbon. When it hits 8:45 I start shaking a little. I have to concentrate on not biting my lower lip or I’ll mess up my lipstick.
I keep a little check list under my typewriter on a little board so I can slide it out and look at it. Make sure his glasses are clean, make sure his desk is organized. Garbage can empty. Check the bulbs in his lamps. Dust his globe and book shelf. I get the special coffee he likes and keep it in a thermos. If he isn’t in by 10 I go get some more so it will be hot and fresh for him. I have to guard the milk I keep in the refrigerator, Mister McIntyre doesn’t like cream. The Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times on his desk. He reads the New York Times on the train.
By 8:55 my heart is racing. I have to dab my forehead. My legs are bouncing so much I’m going to wear a hole in my stockings.
When he comes in, he is charging down the hall. I can hear him. No one else walks that fast in here. I see his silhouette outside the frosted glass door and then he’s walking towards me. I don’t know where to look. I straighten paper. I fix my pencils. If I look up at those blue eyes I’ll explode or, even worse, blush.
“Abby,” he says in that deep voice. I see his chin, I see his lips.
“Good morning, sir,” I hate my voice. I hate my voice. I sound like a little girl.
He is wearing his charcoal gray suit with a white shirt and a navy tie.
“Eleven o’clock with the Richardson people. Lunch at one with the Morgan Stanley people. Nothing else until the four o’clock review with Mister Donaldson, sir.”
He is looking through the mail as I tell him this from memory. He throws away half the mail. I can smell his aftershave and lingering cigarette smoke. He has a little red nick on his chin from shaving. I want to lick it.
Why am I like this? I’m getting wet just from him standing over me. I’ve been here for four months and I’m still like this. It’s actually getting worse. Do other girls think about there bosses like this? I’m 22 and he’s 38. He’s married to the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen; plus- well- Mister McIntyre has secrets. I would never tell. I can keep secrets. It’s important that Mister McIntyre knows that. I’m his secretary and I would never divulge any of his information to anyone. Except my diary.
He is hovering closer. He takes a step nearer and looks around.
“Abby,” he clears his throat. He was using his conspiratorial whisper. “See if you can move the Morgan thing to two and the Richardson thing to 10. Matt Richardson is staying at the Roosevelt, tell him I can swing by and we can do it in the restaurant there.”
He leaned in even closer, his mouth inches from my ear. I was trying to breath. Just kiss me. Kiss my neck. I’ll do anything you want, Mister McIntyre. Please, sir. Please.
“Call up… the Pierre. Get me that room I get. You know. Tell them it is for Mister Jefferson, they will know what you mean. I’ll be there from 11 to 12:30.”
Then he was gone. His door closed. I would wait 10 minutes and then bring him his coffee.
I only saw her once. The girl he takes to the Pierre. He pays cash at the desk for the room. She’s my age, dark hair. She has a stupid face, but those lips. So full and always perfectly painted red. She looks mean, bitter and bratty. Maybe that’s what he likes. I wonder what they do in there. I mean, I know what they do- I just wonder how it goes. Does he get there first or does she? Does he just pull up her dress? Is he rough or gentle?
My legs are closed so tight under my desk. My fists clenched. I have to stop thinking about this.
He’s rough. I bet Mister McIntyre is rough. I bet he pushes her down on the bed or maybe against the wall. I bet he slaps her around if her bratty mouth goes off. I bet he rips her panties off; if she wears any that little slut.
Is it big? Oh god, I have to stop thinking about this. Is it thick and hard? Does she suck it? Does it hurt her when he-
“Abby? Is there a problem with the coffee?” he says through the intercom.
“One moment, sir.”
I’m out of my seat like a shot. I’m dizzy as I get the milk from the break room. Find a mug for him. Get the thermos. Just a splash of milk. My eyes sting. I’m so stupid. I was daydreaming and I forgot.
I fan my eyes. Stop it. Don’t cry. Put on a happy face and bring it in to him.
Composed. Deep breath. I open the door. I bring in the coffee. He doesn’t look up at me, he just picks it up and sips it.
I make the calls. I have to fight to change the times but it all works out.
“Sir? Your schedule is all set for the day. Just the way you wanted it.”
Silence. My heart racing again.
“Thank you, Abby.”
I try not to smile. I feel like I am blushing again. Oh, Mister McIntyre.
This is just silly, but it makes me feel sappy and warm inside. No sex, per se, but plenty of erotica. Meta-erotica?
I’m sort of obsessed by this story. The beginning has been hanging around for a while now. I wrote the ending a while back. I had to sit down and force myself to figure out how to connect the two. With the help of a friend I got it. Let me know what you think.
They broke up on the train.
Trains push his memories to the surface. All the trips into the country as a child. All the trees passing by, leaves changing to red and gold.
The city fades fast, faster then you can imagine. It is so small compared to the stretches of country to the Jersey Shore, to Upstate, to Boston and Maryland and DC.
Looking at Maggie, he could see her fighting her childhood memories. At least he wanted to think she was fighting them, hoping they were there to be fought. She had her nose in a notebook, making a list of things to do.
They were going to Maggie’s parents’ house because Maggie’s father was sick. He had a heart attack, but it looked like he was going to be alright. She had a big Irish family and it was expected that a good daughter would come home in a time like this. So Maggie and her boyfriend Jack got on a train from New York to Virginia.
Maggie and Jack had been living together for three years. They had been dating for four and known each other since college six years ago. She was going for her BA in Fine Arts and he was going for his Masters in English back then.
She had their life planned out. She had a good steady job and he did freelance work. They had a nice apartment, which he loved, but she wanted to move out to the country soon. She wanted to get married, but he hadn’t asked her yet. She had plans and he wasn’t playing along. She didn’t break up with him because she had already put too much time into him. He didn’t break up with her because he was lazy and didn’t like confrontation.
There was something about the trip that started pushing Jack’s buttons from the start. They were taking the train out to her parents’ house and there was this air of expectance. She expected him to go, to be excited, to ask her to marry him, to want kids, to want a better job… but none of that was going to happen and both of them were starting to realize it.
A third of the way there after arguing over signing another lease for the apartment she said “If you don’t want to grow as a couple then maybe we should just break up.”
It wasn’t a threat, it was something that people said in the heat of the moment, but it just pushed Jack over the edge.
“Yeah. We should. This relationship is a joke. You don’t love me; you just need someone to help you afford a mortgage.”
And she cracked. She cried. There was no putting things back together.
For the next hour they agreed on things. Jack would be nice for the three day weekend with Maggie’s parents. They would take care of the breakup when they got back. And then like a switch when they got to their stop Maggie fixed her makeup and was back to herself.
They entered the big old house just after 4pm. It was an old southern house with white pillars outside and a big porch and a huge white door.
They entered to find silence and emptiness. Walking up the staircase they came to a long hall. Pictures hung along the walls, old school pictures of Maggie and her sisters Molly and Megan. Three smiling girls with white skin and black hair and matching skirts and sweaters. Three princesses at Halloween. Three girls on horses.
Jack followed Maggie as she navigated pass a dozen doors and finally found her old room. Jack was a stranger in this place. He was not a Smith.
Maggie’s room was white walled, filled with 2-foot boxes in one corner, an uncomfortable looking bed made up with yellow sheets and a pink and yellow quilt. One wall was all white bookshelves, but they were only a quarter filled. On one wall hung a large framed sketch of Maggie. He remembered her sitting in front of the mirror, sketching herself for her final project in still life, back in college.
In that frame was Maggie, the girl. Quiet in class, but boisterous when she was excited. Level headed, list making, but deep down an artist. Deep down filled with the same curiosity that Jack was filled with. Curiosity about books, history, art… and sex. The more he remembered their college years the more he realized that the Maggie he knew was gone.
When did she start longing for mediocre satisfaction? When did she stop needing to explore and started needing a bigger house, a better job, some mythical security she constantly talked about. When did she put her paints and her charcoal and her pads and canvas in her parents’ basement to go untouched?
The same time she started thinking of sex as a duty and rolling her eyes at the mere mention of sexual adventure. Sex was just relieving them both of some energy or maybe a way for her to get him to leave her alone so she could get enough sleep to wake up at 5 in the morning to jog.
She sighed and put her bags down.
“Listen, you can stay here. I will go to the hospital. Then everyone will come back for dinner. I know you don’t want to be here… but let’s just do this and then we can get back and…” she just trailed off. A horn honked outside and she looked out the window.
“That’s my aunt. Unpack, ok?”
Jack nodded. “I like your family. This weekend will be fine. Go check on your father, make sure he is alright.”
She looked at him, unsure if a hug was still ok. Then she just turned around and left.
He unpacked, he looked around. He ended up on the bed, drifting off into a nap. The train ride, the fight, all of it melted away.
When he awoke in darkness. He could hear people downstairs and smell the warm homey smells of chicken and potatoes.
He saw movement, the door opened and closed.
“Hey. You ok? Sorry I fell asleep… the fight and everything…”
“I don’t think your talking to the right Smith girl, mister.”
The light came on and that’s when he found out Maggie’s little sister grew up.
She was Maggie, but different. Shorter, but only slightly. Bustier, a little more hip, a little more ass. Same nose, same ears, fuller lips. Her eyes were blue, while Maggie’s where green.
The last time he saw her it was about four years ago, she had just turned fifteen. Sitting up fully he couldn’t quiet comprehend that it was the same person. Molly the Mole, skinned knee tomboy who made gagging sounds if she saw him kissing her sister.
The first thing he noticed was a red and black nautical star tattoo between her neck and her breasts, half hidden by her white cotton tank top. Half perfect black and red ink on her white skin, half dark shadow under the thin cotton.
She squirmed under his eyes. “Thanks.” Her arms came up and she folded them over her breasts. She was trying not to smile.
“So you two having a fight?”
“Um. No. Not really. Just an argument. Sort of.” He knew he had to look away from her, but he couldn’t. It was like looking at all the missing parts of Maggie, melted into a younger curvier tighter form. He walked over to the window and looked out at the greens and the grays.
She came into the room and walked to the bookshelf, looking at the remaining books, letting her finger drift over the spines.
“I was wondering what you would look like now,” she said. He could hear the smile in her voice.
“Oh? Do I look different?”
He looked over to her and she nodded. “You look old, but basically the same. You look better with your hair short. Your hair looked pretty dumb long. Plus those glasses are better, the dark frames. You’re still ugly, though.” There was the smile, the wicked brat smile. In those eyes was pure curiosity.
“I always thought you had
a crush on me.”
She let out a laugh, but she blushed.
“You wish.” she said, but eyed him and smiled.
He looked at her from the side now. It was like a lecture on the effects of puberty. At fifteen she was all legs and arms and wild nervous energy. At nineteen she was all hips and tits and calm sultry sex.
He noticed other tattoos, one on her wrist, this one just a black star. He could see the shadow of something on her back, it was large and not one of those little designs girls get right at their tailbone, this was long and it came up from around her butt to the middle of her back.
He stood up and moved closer to her, slowly and she tensed. She was still facing the books, pretending not to be curious about what he was going to do next. He walked behind her, moved closer until he was two feet away. He looked at the books, he looked at her neck, he looked at her eye as she turned her head to look at him.
“You got a tattoo on your back, too?”
She nodded, still facing her body away from him, but looking at him from over her shoulder.
He moved in and put his hands on her waist. She froze. He touched the edges of her thin shirt.
“Can I see?”
She swallowed and nodded. Their eyes met. Curiosity, lust.
He pulled up her shirt slowly and saw that there where two jet black f-hole, like the ones on a violin or cello. It was a lot of ink, a lot of time. He touched the edge of it and he could feel raised scarred skin.
Her back was smooth and her ass curved out from just below his hand.
“Wow. You got all this done in the last year?”
She moved forward, pulling her shirt out of his grip.
“Yeah. I was dating a tattoo artist for a while.”
He took her hand and looked at the tattoo on her wrist.
“Did they hurt?”
She smile. “That’s the best part.”
A voice from downstairs said “Kids… dinner.”
Dinner was huge and southern. Jack had forgotten that people ate like that. Fried chicken and mashed potatoes, greens and a million other things. Everyone was so busy catching up with Maggie and Molly, who had been off at Art School and also with Maggie’s older sister who had just had twins that no one really bothered talking to Jack, which was just the way he liked it.
Molly watched him though. Watched him like a cat watches a bird. It was a very different look then the fifteen year old awkward kid gave him four years ago.
When it was over Maggie said goodnight to all and went upstairs with Jack, got undressed without looking at him and then went to bed.
Jack laid there, uncomfortable because of the small bed and not really wanting to be too close to Maggie. He found himself thinking of Molly every time he closed his eyes. The way she looked in that white tank top, tough and sexy. He wanted to know what those tattoos looked like up close. What it felt like to trace them with his tongue.
Thoughts like that and the moonlight coming in from the window kept him up half the night. It seemed like only minutes, but the next time he opened his eyes it was morning. He awoke to feel the familiar sensation of Maggie next to him. He had turned around to face her in the night and now he was spooning her, with his arm around her.
She felt warm, she smelt good. Her ass against him made him stir inside. Without really realizing, his hand came up to cup her breast. It was such a natural thing.
She sighed and pushes his arm away.
“Yeah, right.” She said with disgust.
She sat up and climbed over him.
“Go back to bed, I’m taking a shower. Everyone is going to go to church in an hour. I know you don’t want to do that, so I’ll probably see you at lunch.”
She looked him in the eyes.
He nodded. He was still hard under the warm sheets. Memories, warm blanket comfort and the smell of her hair on the pillow made his mind swim. If he just relaxed he could fall back asleep. And then there was nothing.
He awoke to the sound of the door closing.
The room was too bright, the sun coming in through the half opened curtains. He was groggy, as only waking up from oversleeping can make you. The room was a dull white blur, then the blinds were closed and the curtains pulled shut so that the light filtered through the rust colored fabric, making the room dull yellow and red.
Then Maggie slipped into bed. Her arms around him, her lips on his neck. He pushed her hair back and kissed her. Her lips felt soft, there was some sweet lip gloss… and then he opened his eyes wider and saw who was really in bed with him.
There was Molly. There was Molly in her white tank top.
“Hello mister bedhead.”
He tried to comprehend what was going on.
Then Molly’s lips are on his again and he got the rush of the taste of a new mouth. Then Molly, squirming and turning around, and her soft round ass is against him. His arms are around her and they’re spooning. His mouth is on her neck and his hands are on her hips.
It is an interesting thing when you are so used to one person’s body, your hands remember where to go on them, your body understands how you are supposed to fit together, but now he was lost in this new geography. Her lips were too hot and soft, her kisses were too rough, her breasts too big, too heavy, too perfect.
Her hips flared out, giving him something to really hold on to when he pulled her against him. Her ass was soft and cool and when he hooked his fingers into the sides of her panties and pulled them down, he slipped right between her cheeks and it was perfection.
She moved her head back as he moved forward and he was lost in her kiss again. She arched her whole body against him and her lips were on his ear, sucking, then biting, then whispering.
“Do you want to fuck me?”
Jack grunted and pulled at her hips roughly. His cock touching wetness and heat as it rubbed between her legs.
“You have to say it. I like to hear it.”
Her voice was steady, but wanton. It was new, not the silent simple sex Jack was used to. Jack liked this.
“Damn,” he groaned into her neck. “I want to fuck you… so badly.”
His hand squeezed her breast once more and then moved down to between her legs. He groaned again when he felt smoothness where he expected coarse hair. Then his fingers felt wet heat. Silk softness, perfect folds that made him growl.
As his finger passed over her lips and one finger slipped into her she pushed her ass back against him.
“I want you to go down on me.” She gasped, pushing his hand away and laying on her back.
Jack looked down at her, her face was red and a red blush ran down her neck and on her chest where his unshaven face rubbed against her. He went to push her shirt off, but instead smiled.
“Take off your shirt. I want to see your tits.”
She smiled wickedly and pulled off her shirt and then unhooked her bra and took that off.
He saw that red and black star on her chest and lower down another tattoo… a heart on fire with a gold crown above it, right over her heart.
He moved until he was kneeling between her open legs, then he moved down and kissed her neck again, then traced his tongue around the slightly raised thick black lines of each tattoo on her chest. She arched her hips and her breath caught.
He kissed down her chest and stomach until he got between her legs. By now she was growling and purring.
One lick and he was addicted. Her body moved like a snake as he licked at her and she whined and gasped.
“More.. fuck. Make me come.”
He licked her lips teasing and bit the tight skin of her thigh, then he moved in circling her clit and flicking it and he moved one hand up to slip one finger into her.
r />That was all it took. Fucking her with his finger and licking her made her body buck and made her grab the pillow behind her and squeeze it as she came hard.
Jack sat up, watching her come down from her amazing orgasm. He had never seen a woman come that hard. Maggie took a half an hour of work.. sometimes even a vibrator.
She smiled and looked into his eyes and then turned to look at the clock.
“Fuck, we only have 20 more minutes…”
She pushed him away and stood up, looking at him wickedly.
“I guess I got to make you come fast… stand up.”
He did and she kissed him hard, licking his bottom lip and tasting herself on him.
“What gets you off? You want to fuck me from behind? Want me to get on top and ride you? I want to make you get off hard.” She said all these things into his ear as she reached down and gripped his cock tightly.
Really, he didn’t even know. He was so used to getting what ever sad sex Maggie would give him he didn’t know what he really want. He had never been with someone so forward.
“You like that this is dirty? That my sister could come home any minute?” She whispered, jerking him off.
“You like that I am fucking 10 years younger then you?”
“You want me to be a little girl for you? I can bend over and you can fuck me?”
She turned in a flash and kneeled down, taking the head of his cock in her mouth. She sucked and licked around the head. Then she sucked half of his cock.
All thought disappeared. She broke every rule her sister set in bed. She was like a wet, writhing, perfect id of sex.
She stood up and then leaned over the bed, sticking her ass up in the air.
“Come on… fuck me… fuck me… fuck your little slut”
And then he was looking down at her back with the tattoos that looked like a cello and she was groaning and then he was inside of her. And it was tight wet perfection.
“Fuck me.” She whispered it over and over, like a mantra.
It took seconds for him to come. It was the most violent, mind numbing, powerful orgasm he could remember. He almost fell down, his knees went so weak.
He collapsed on the bed, hardly aware that she had laid down and started fingering herself.
Jack turned and weakly kissed her nipple, wanting her to get off one more time.
“Bite it hard.” She begged.
He bit it, reaching up and squeezing her other tit. Then he moved up to her ear and whispered.
“Come for me…”
And she came, loud against him.
And that’s when the door opened.
When I pushed her against the bookshelf and kissed her neck and pressed myself hard against her, she didn’t seem surprised. When will I learn to read women better?
We start kissing in the cab, my hand sneaking under her dress when the driver isn’t paying attention. She was waxed clean and smooth and always wet, my little pet, and that made it so my fingers slipped right in perfectly. She slaps me away, wanting to be a good girl until we get inside.
This story takes place in the same “universe” as my other (similar) clone story The Long Run. It is basically a not too distant future where space travel is common, but only within the solar system. Continue reading
Classic story. Boy meets girl. Boy falls for girl. Girl leaves boy. Boy buys four clones of girl to be his company on a long space flight. Continue reading