Forty-two and going through empty nest syndrome. My twenty-one-year-old son was in Europe backpacking to, as he said in his own words, 'Find himself'. While my eighteen-year-old daughter recently graduated from high school and having received a full scholarship to Berkeley, had moved clear across the country to California to attend school there.
Forty-two and single.
Forty-two and alone.
Forty-two and feeling like a teenager: insecure and wanting.
Forty-two and the last things to pleasure me were toys and sadly, craving a deep fucking, a very lengthy cucumber.
Forty-two and I had not been with a man intimately in over five years...not since my husband Alan died in a car accident (yes, I dated a few men, some even good guys, but I always compared them to my deceased husband and always felt I was betraying his memory by bringing a man home to meet my children or sleeping with them).
Forty-two and lost. In retrospect, I was the poster woman for stay-at-home moms. I was heavily involved with my children's lives and in many ways lived vicariously through them (especially after Alan passed). I was a chauffeur, I was a cook, I was a party planner, I was a shoulder to cry on, I was a parent volunteer and I eventually was PTA Chair. So when all those duties, all those roles disappeared, I really didn't know what to do. My life was my children and now that my life was my own I had no idea what to do.
Forty-two and broke. The money from Alan's life insurance policy kept us ok for awhile, the house is paid for and so forth, but the extra money was gone and I needed a job, something I had never had before (Alan believed in being the man of the house and I the stay at home housewife).
Forty-two and qualified to do everything and nothing.
What I learned after a month of job searching was I was qualified for absolutely nothing. Apparently over twenty years of raising children did not count as experience on a resume and even though I had planned a plethora of big events (graduation, family carnivals and an abundance of fundraisers), the job market didn't care. Although I had many transferable skills, prospective employers didn't see parenting as equivalent to, as they called it, 'real life' experience.
By the time of my monthly girl's night out arrived, I was frustrated and more than a little stressed.
As we drank wine at a candle party, I whined about all my unemployment problems finishing with, "And in conclusion it seems I am unemployable. Too old to be worth training and way too young to be thinking pension...I am only forty-two for Christ sake."
Bella, A friend of a friend, and the youngest and newest addition to our group, said, "Not sure you are interested, but our firm is hiring a temporary secretary, as Carolyn is going on maternity leave."
"Really?" I asked, feeling a glimmer of hope.
"I can put in a good word for you," she added.
"Please do," I said, excited about the opportunity.
"I can even give you tips on what to wear," she added, "Mr. Jackson is very particular." Her tone playful yet for some reason seemingly ominous.
"How so?" I asked,
"He is a leg man," Bella explained, squeezing my leg. "So dress professional, yet sexy professional."
"Sexy professional?" I questioned.
"Yes, always wear a skirt, and always wear nylons," she explained, before adding, "sexy, but professional."
"Oh," was all I said as I wondered what I had that would be both sexy and professional.
Two weeks later, I had an interview and I dressed to impress. I bought an outfit almost indescribable: a black blazer blouse. I didn't know such a thing existed, but it was definitely sexy and yet oddly professional. A matching black skirt, and black heels tailored the look perfectly.
To finish the look I did what I always did, ever since I met my husband, I dressed sexy underneath my conservative attire. Whether it be a PTA meeting, supervising a dance, out for supper, or just hosting friends, I would wear a sexy bra and thigh high stockings and nothing else. I loved the thrill of going commando, of no one knowing my sexy secret, no one knowing that underneath the conservative dress, the safe make-up and sweet smile, was a slutty woman who had been utterly obedient and submissive sexually to her husband. And even after his death, I continued to go about sans underwear, except when Aunt Ruby paid her monthly visit and all my bras were bought at an expensive lingerie shop. Lastly, I didn't even own a pair of pantyhose and hadn't in years, decades even, only wearing thigh high stockings for, as Alan called it, 'easy access to my cunt'. He insisted on calling my special place a cunt and not the less nasty pussy or the politically correct vagina...it was always a cunt. A shiver went up my spine as I fondly recalled my many naughty submissive encounters with Alan.
So underneath my sexy, unique and professional outfit, I went commando as usual, wore matching black thigh highs and a fun, sexy, naughty black bra.
I wore my brown hair up and my make-up hid the few facial blemishes that come with age. Attempting for the typical secretary look I had my glasses on, even though I usually wear contacts.
Truth be told for forty-two, I am still in great shape and get my fair amount of looks and second looks from boys and men. Looking in the mirror, I decided I had perfectly perfected the sexy, but professional look.
I arrived early as interview edict dictates and waited forty minutes, twenty-five past the scheduled interview time, also seemingly part of standard interview expectations based on my past month experience.
Finally, the secretary, who was so big I thought she might go into labor at any second, announced, "Mr. Jackson will see you now."
"Thank you," I replied, standing up and preparing myself for another potential rejection.
Building my confidence, the one that was strong and never wavered when I was PTA chair or running any number of complex events; the confidence that had slowly faltered rejection after rejection.
"Please take a seat," he offered, offering the chair across from his desk.
I froze in my tracks. His strong, husky, I am in control voice was eerily similar to my deceased husband.
Suddenly rattled, I stammered, "T-t-thank you, Mr. Jackson," and took my seat, crossing my legs. I noticed also, unlike other potential employers, he made no effort to get up and greet me. Again, like my deceased husband, it was clear who was in charge.
I should have known where this may be leading by his first words, but I was so caught up in making a good impression and slightly distracted by just how much he reminded me of Alan, I had trouble focusing.
"So, Amanda," he opened, also the first to use my first name in an interview, "Bella was dead on, you are the complete package."
I caught on instantly this was a compliment and I just as instantly understood that flirtation would be an effective strategy. I replied, demurely, trying to match the sexy, yet professional, ensemble, "Well, thank you. You seem to have the complete package too."
As soon as I said it I wished I could take it back, the sexual innuendo so obvious that I now looked like a slut using my sexual wiles to get the job, but a few things had me rattled and not thinking straight. Besides his strong, powerful voice and his clearly in charge demeanor, he was a sexy older man and I have always had a thing for sexy older men. Alan had been nine years older than me and I pegged Mr. Jackson to have about the same extra life experience as Alan had on me.
He had no reaction at all to my comment. He asked, "So I see you have no actual business experience."
I noticed his eyes continually glance towards my stocking-clad legs and I knew I could use my sexuality to my advantage: sexy, not slutty, flirty not obvious. I defended, "No I don't as a secretary but as PTA chair for three years I ran huge events and...."
"Stop there, Amanda," he interrupted, "Based on your volunteer work, I think you are more than experienced enough to handle the menial tasks of the job."
A sigh of relief warmed me at the thought of being judged based on my extensive volunteer work and not my choice to not get a 9 to 5 job. "Thank you, Mr. Jackson."
"It is the intensity of the job that may be an issue," he stated, my brief bubble of hope already about to burst.
I noticed his constant glimpses at my heels and wondered if he was a foot guy like my husband had been. I decided to test my theory, my dangling my heel from my toes of the foot that was crossed over the other.
As expected, his gaze went to the tangling heel as I asked, "Intensity?"
"Yes, my secretary is on call twenty-four, seven, seven days a week," he informed me, returning his gaze to my eyes.
"Oh my," I said, surprised by the full scope of the job.
Another look at my dangling heel, he continued, "I travel a lot and I need someone who has the flexibility to be able to travel a lot and often with almost no warning."
Again the scope was extreme, but I thought to myself that I had no current life or weekly expectations, and I loved traveling, and had not left the state since Alan passed, except for checking out Berkeley with Ellie. Allowing my heel to hit the floor I answered, "Well, I do love to travel."
It was obvious this time that he was checking my stocking-clad foot. He asked, still looking down, "And the on call aspect?"
I reached down for my heel, but stopped as he ordered, "Leave it there, Amanda."
I could sense the shift in the interview, as I obeyed sitting back on the chair. "Well, the kids are gone, so I really have no commitments."
His eyes finally returned to me. "And you are widowed, correct?"
"Yes," I admitted, before adding, "Five years now."
No fake condolences, like I usually received, as he pushed further. My uncovered toes clearly a distraction to him. "You will answer your cell phone no matter the time of day or night," he explained, his tone no nonsense.
Realizing the flavor of the interview had changed, I answered, now more flirty than professional, "That goes without saying."
He asked, eyebrow raised, "Are you sure you can handle this? Many have quit due to the overbearing workload."
Staring at him, I slowly uncrossed my legs. If he was looking closely he would notice that I was not wearing panties. After a brief delay, I readjusted, crossing my legs the other way. What should have taken two or three seconds, took fifteen or twenty as I attempted to imply my desire through my actions, my teasing. I replied, allowing my other heel to dangle, a mixture of sweetness, seductiveness and confidence, "I am capable of almost anything. I am a very determined woman who always gets the job done, no matter what it takes."
I knew I was speaking in double-entendres, as I was both flirty and serious at the same time. Was I offering sex at the time? No. But was the thought of him fucking me in the back of my mind? Yes. He was just so much like my husband in voice, attitude and demeanor. And five years without having my needs met with a real man added to the hunger and lack of dignity that I was already feeling.
He had watched the entire simple act of crossing my legs like it was a slow motion action scene in a movie.
He finally replied, a delayed response to be sure, the first tone of something other than business in his tone, "Anything, is a pretty dangerous word."
Allowing my second heel to hit the floor, clearly on purpose, I replied, my tone no longer hiding my growing hunger. "Well, it is a very dangerous world."
His gaze never left my stocking-clad feet as he stood up. He didn't move towards me, just stood above me I assume implying who was in charge.
I could feel wetness starting to form down below at the thought of submission to him, my hunger to regain that clear Dom-submissive relationship I once had. I felt a desire to rekindle a sex life that had long flamed out, from the grief of the death of my husband, and the fear of bringing another man into my children's life.
Finally he spoke. "My secretary must not only be twenty-four seven, seven days a week, they must also be a full-service secretary."
Maybe I can have my cake and eat it too I thought to myself. I looked up coyly, my voice dripping with implication, "And what does a full-service secretary entail?" The answer obvious, the question technically rhetorical.
Ignoring my question, he asked one instead. "You have kids correct?"
"Yes," I answered, surprised by the 180 degree turn, before adding, "but they are both far, far away."
"I hate to be blunt but after what happened with Carolyn I need to know," he started.
I vaguely recalled that Carolyn was his current very pregnant secretary and clarity came crystal clear. He had knocked up his, much younger and fertile, 'full-time secretary.' He was implying if I took the job he was planning on fucking me regularly. My cunt leaked more.
My answer, I assumed, sealed our upcoming relationship. "I had my tubes tied a couple years after the birth of my second child," I revealed, before adding after a lengthy pause, "sir."
The slightest glimmer of a smile flickered across his lips. After a lengthy pause, where time seemed to stop completely, he finally spoke. Ironically, as he sat back down, he ordered firmly,"Stand up."
I didn't hesitate, knowing from experience the true meaning of obedience. I obeyed without protest, without hesitation. Only through utter, complete submission can a true Domme-submissive relationship work. A true submissive gives up all control of their life to their Domme, their Master. I had done that with my late husband.
"Good," his one word approval allowed the long dormant flame below to start to burn. "But be warned I expect obedience and I punish any lack of it," he stressed his eyes boring through me, seeing my need to submit.
"I understand," I whispered, nervous and yet full of anticipation.
"Take your skirt off," he instructed, watching my every move and reacting only with his eyes.
I again obeyed, unzipping the skirt and allowing it to drop revealing so many secrets in one quick second.
I saw a look of surprise on his face; clearly he wasn't expecting the fact that I was not wearing any panties.
My face felt a little red being put in such a compromising position with a relative stranger, yet deep down it just felt right.
"Do you usually go without underwear?" he finally asked.
"Yes, sir," I admitted, again responding submissively. "I haven't worn underwear since college, except of course."
"Yes, of course," he replied, a real smile crossing his face for the first time. "And the thigh highs?" he asked.
"They make me feel sexy, my deceased husband loved them and," I paused, my turn to take brief control, "he liked the, as he called it, easy access to my cunt."
"Hmmmm," he said, if a sound can be considered saying.
Finally, he ordered, "Unbutton your blouse."
"Yes, sir," I obeyed, slowly, seductively, my eyes never leaving his. Button by button my thrill to obey making me wetter and wetter.
He watched intently, no facial expression giving away whether he was excited or bored by my slow striptease.
My last button undone, I smiled just enough to show my excitement that I eagerly wanted more instructions. I waited further instruction as I knew not to make presumptions that he wanted my blouse off. He would decide when I did, not me.
"You understand, of course, that I need to make sure you are a good fit to be a," he paused and used humour for the first time, "member of my staff."
My smile provocative, my tone sexy, and my posture revealing, I answered, "What do I need to do to," I paused for effect, my hand moving close to my wet cunt, "prove my worthiness?"
"You will, of course, stay with me when we travel," he explained all business, again not answering my flirty answer.
"Of course, it would save on travel costs," I agreed, pointing out a sound logical reason for sharing a room.
"And you understand at meetings you may have to do more than just dictation," he continued, giving me every opportunity to back out.
I wondered if he meant I would have to please other men to seal a deal of sorts or if I would be his quickie sexual relief during long negotiations. I briefly reflected on my biggest regret that was not having made my biggest fantasy come true, to be gangbanged. Maybe he could make it come true. Regardless of his intent, I answered as expected, "I am capable of and experienced in all sorts of dick-taking."
My declaration finally convincing and as blunt as possible, he said, "I think you will be an excellent addition to our firm. But first let's see if you and I have a similar definition of dictation."
"What do you have in mind?" I asked, my smile devious, my intent obvious, my cunt burning and my mind spinning.
"Fall to your knees and crawl to me," he ordered.
"Yes sir," I obeyed, gracefully falling to my knees and slowly, hopefully sexily, crawling submissively on my hands and knees to him.
Once at his feet, he looked down at me and asked, "Are you sure you are ready for this?"
I didn't know if he meant the job or the blow job, but the answer was the same either way. Not remotely hiding my hunger to submit unconditionally, I moaned, my insatiable hunger to obey, to please, "Oh God, yes." (next Chap 2)