Confessions of a Personal Secretary

‘I must have you!’ Hassan starts ripping off his clothes and I realize that things are getting serious. What a hard, muscly body he has. How disgusting! And that huge blunder buss of a plunder puss. I had heard that Arabs had big ones but this is ridiculous. He is better endowed than the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.

‘Let me go!’ I hiss. ‘Put that stand aside!’

‘After what you have just done to me?’ gasps Hassan. ‘What are you, some kind of trick pleaser?’

I don’t answer him but make another dive for the door. It is hopeless. He is on to me like a cat on to a mouse and I feel his gross organ trapped between our two bodies like a rolling pin.

Oh dear, what does a woman do in a situation like this – and why does it have to happen to me when I have put on my best costume so that I would make a good impression at my final interview? Ping! There goes one of the attractive beetle-shaped buttons. A fat chance I will have of finding that with all the cushions and things littering the floor.

‘I must have you!’ Hassan does repeat himself.

Of course, most of the experts – they always happen to be men, have you noticed that? – say that you should lie back and let them get on with it. They would, wouldn’t they? To do otherwise is to run the risk of inciting violence – in addition, of course, to the violence that is being dished out to you. In this instance I don’t seem to have much alternative. Akmed Hassan is wickedly strong and quite, quite ruthless when it comes to removing undergarments. He just rips them off. I wonder if Arab women wear underclothes? Dwelling on some such subject of mild general interest is a help in taking one’s mind off the ordeal. It is a bit like counting the plaster mouldings on the ceiling whilst the dentist is drilling your teeth. Ping! Ping! Two more buttons fly across the room. If only it did not make one feel like an accessory I would offer to take my clothes off. I mean, they cost so much, these days, don’t they? The emotional wear and tear is bad enough without the expense of having to replace half your wardrobe. Hassan has now uncovered my breasts – to put it at its mildest – and is brushing his cheeks against my nipples and making moaning noises. They are obviously very excitable, these Arabs. I can just imagine what it would be like to get stuck in a traffic jam in Alexandria. I am well out of it. Hassan is now drawing on my dainty little breast buttons as if they were a substitute for his hookah and with the suction power he is generating I would not be surprised to see smoke rising from them. What an impulsive hashamite he is! Such passionate vigour might be almost pleasing if it was the result of a union solemnized by the nuptial knot. As it is I can only close my eyes and try and remember the address of the nearest Pitman’s College. I was a fool not to go to them in the first place.

Akmed’s right hand has now made considerable inroads into my plundered nether regions and two long, lithe fingers tap dance round the entrance to my reception area before immersing themselves up to the second joint in my spasm chasm. Once trespassing in the domain of the man (as yet unknown) that I am saving myself for, the unwelcome digits commence a scissor kicking routine that peppers the walls of my passion parlour with unsought thrills. What a brute this creature is. He not only rapes me but seeks to make me enjoy it at the same time. How low can you get?

Akmed proceeds to show me by withdrawing his fingers and inserting his head under my skirt. At least I am spared the sight of it as it performs acts that are almost too unspeakable to think about let alone be consigned to paper that might be read by innocent printers. Oh! what tongues they have, these Arabs. Absolutely disgusting! Like thirsty Great Bernards going berserk all over you. I have never known such penetrative power in something long and soft. It is like a velvet rasp. It is almost a relief to my outraged senses when Hassan starts quivering and brings his head up with a sharp exclamation – I think he had forgotten that it was under my skirt. His nose springs back against my pelvis and as a second muffled shriek of agony rents the air I marvel at the elastic qualities of crimplene. This time, he withdraws his head more carefully and scurries up my body until his hickory dickery is practically docked. I can feel its urgent dome pressed against the lips of my labia like an impulsive drunk with the toecap of his shoe poised against the saloon bar door as six o’clock approaches.

‘You beast!’ I hiss. ‘You’ll be sorry for this.’

Should such an emotion as sorrow be passing within a thousand miles of Akmed Hassan, no light of recognition dawns across his features. Poising only to show me the roots of his lower row of molars and deliver himself of another quiver, he utters an ‘Allah be praised’ and releases his seed steed into my private pastures as if they were the OK Corral. I had imagined that the impetuous dauphin of the desert would be swiftly to the boil, but this is not the case. He settles to a long rhythmic stroke and returns to browsing on my breasts, neck and shoulders. The effect of this onslaught can be imagined. I am like that stout person on the bridge when those behind cried forward and those in front cried back. The horrible Hassan is causing an uncomfortable clash between the mental and physical side of my nature. There is only one thing to do: perform the considerable mental feat of imagining that the swine across my thighs is my ‘one day Mr Right’. In that way I can achieve some physical retribution for the ordeal I am being asked to suffer and avoid the aftermath of mental anguish which would be my lot were I to voluntarily submit to prenuptial embraces of an intimate nature. Fortified in spirit, I place my hand on one of Hassan’s naked haunches and feel his brown body shiver within me. The power in his thighs would fuse the springs on a scrummaging machine and I notice that the force of his onslaught has driven us back almost to the wainscoting. Behind us there is a trail of mangled carpet pile like the wake of an ocean liner.

Surely he must come soon? Even my own refined and hardly exposed senses are beginning to experience the onslaught of orgasm. I feel myself being sucked remorselessly into the quickening current that speeds towards the waterfall called climax.

But no! Hassan withdraws his love wand and succeeds in joining the fingers of his right hand about it. ‘More suck,’ he says.

‘Oh no,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to smoke that thing again. I’m certain it’s bad for you.’

‘Not for me,’ say Hassan earnestly. ‘We do it together, yes?’

‘No—’ I say. But he has already dived down and is trying to pick up the hooka pipe with his teeth – at least, I think he is. Before I can be certain, the door opens and Penny walks in.

‘Oh Penny,’ I say. ‘Thank goodness you’ve come.’

‘And not the only one by the look of things,’ says Penny, her eyes taking in my dishevelled condition. ‘Not by a long stroke.’ Her glance strays to Hassan’s funny gun. ‘Uum. And talking of long strokes …’

‘He attacked me,’ I gasp. ‘Admit it, you beast!’

Hassan starts to splutter something but Penny holds up a silencing hand. ‘I know what these swine are up to,’ she says. ‘Your lower ribs with any luck.’ To my amazement she starts to unzip her skirt.

‘Penny!’ I gasp. ‘What are you doing?’

‘There’s only one language these devils understand,’ she says grimly. ‘I’ve dealt with Kruger and now it’s this one’s turn.’

She is now down to suspender belt, panties and bra and I see Hassan’s startled expression match my own. ‘You are looking for a job in Alexandria?’ he says eagerly. ‘Air conditioned waste disposal unit, free veterinary attention for your donkey – aaaaaaaaargh!!!’ His description of the fringe benefits dies away in a scream as Penny sheds her panties and leaps on to his rampant root. Her aim is unerring and she begins to shimmer up and down like a piece of ribbon tied to an electric fan.

Demonstrating that refinement of feeling for which I am renowned I dress myself as well as I am able and, closing the door of the interview room quietly behind me, go downstairs to where the stretcher bearers are carrying Mr Kruger out to the ambulance.

CHAPTER THREE

‘I’m annoyed with myself for not getting on to him sooner,’ says Penny.

‘I thought you got on to him pretty quickly in the circumstances,’ I say, finding it impossible to keep a note of disapproval out of my voice.

‘I didn’t mean that,’ says Penny. ‘I was talking about Kruger and his racket.’

‘Racket?’ I say. ‘You mean all that banging on the piano?’

‘That was just a front,’ says Penny. ‘The course was meant to be so impossibly difficult that no one could pass.’

I feel myself getting confused. Maybe it is the noise from the jukebox in the Flying Wad where we are having a cup of coffee – or tea – or something dark brown and tepid costing twelve pence a cup. ‘I know I’m very stupid—’ I break off and wait for Penny to disagree with me. She does not say anything so I continue —‘but I don’t see why they should want us all to fail.’

‘So everybody would jump at the chance of a job in one of those faraway places with strange sounding names,’ says Penny. ‘It was those letters that made me realize what they were up to. Do you remember how we were always typing letters home saying how lovely it was in Ismailia – and signing them?’

‘Of course I do,’ I say. ‘You think they were trying to brainwash us into thinking that these places were marvellous?’

‘More than that,’ says Penny. ‘They were actually going to send the letters back to our parents once we got there.’

‘But why wouldn’t we be writing our own letters?’ I say. ‘I may be unusual but I always try and drop Mum and Dad a postcard even if I’m only going to be away—’

‘You wouldn’t have had time to write letters home,’ interrupts Penny. ‘You’d have been serving the unspeakable needs of scores of dark-skinned gentlemen.’

‘You mean, we’d have been in the typing pool of a local government office?’ I say. ‘Oh dear, I was hoping for something a bit more elevated than that.’

‘You’d get something elevated, all right,’ says Penny, a hint of asperity creeping into her voice. ‘Don’t you see what I’m getting at? The Learnfast School of Fastwriting is a recruiting centre for a callgirl racket! This is the white slave trade nineteen seventies style.’

It takes a few minutes for the full meaning of Penny’s words to sink in and I am so thunderstruck that I take another gulp of my coffee – something that I vowed not to do after the first mouthful.

‘I could kick myself,’ says Penny. ‘If only I’d got the whole thing into perspective at an earlier date. What an opportunity wasted.’

‘To expose this vile trade in human souls?’ I say.

‘No, you fool! To clean up in a few Middle Eastern currencies.’ Penny purses her lips angrily. ‘Kruger would have been putty in my hands – in fact, he was putty in my hands when I’d finished with him – and Hassan was no problem. I should have been gentler with them. I get too carried away sometimes.’

‘Just like them,’ I say, thinking of the two pairs of twitching feet protruding from the end of the stretchers.

‘It’s too late, now, I suppose,’ says Penny, wistfully. ‘Still at least I’ve got my diploma.’ She affectionately pats a scroll of parchment protruding from her bag.

‘You got a diploma?’ I say, astonished. ‘Let me see that!’

‘Look away,’ says Penny. ‘It’s perfectly authentic. See, there’s Kruger’s signature.’ She points to a shaky zig-zag line falling off the bottom of the page.

‘Signature?’ I say. ‘It looks more like a seismograph recording of an earthquake.’

‘Well, I suppose he was a bit shaken up when he wrote it,’ says Penny. ‘I wasn’t going to leave that place empty-handed at any cost.’

‘You don’t have any scruples, do you?’ I accuse.

‘Of course not, darling,’ says Penny breezily. ‘Neither do you. Look at the position I found you in with Hassan: just about to embark on a crafty soixante-neuf. Hardly reticent, was it?’

‘I don’t like what you’re suggesting,’ I say.

‘You adore what I’m suggesting,’ says Penny. ‘The trouble is that you won’t admit to it.’

Penny is utterly wrong, of course. I have always taken the greatest care never to place myself in a position which might sully the gift of virginity which I intend to bestow on my one day Mr Right. However, as regular readers will know, I believe that virginity is very much a state of mind. As long as one was not responsible for one’s actions or undertook them for reasons unconnected with sexual gratification then one cannot be said to have ‘lost’ one’s virginity. It is as simple as that. Thankfully, for my own peace of mind, I cannot think of one occasion in which I have betrayed the trust that my future husband will surely place in me. Some people may say that I am being fussy and old-fashioned in these free and easy times but I think that if you have principles you should stick to them.

‘I don’t wish to pursue this particular line of conversation,’ I say, coldly. ‘What precisely do you intend to do with your diploma?’

‘I’m going to put it to work, of course. One might as well have a stab at the secretarial life. If I’d have thought about it I could have got you one too.’

‘Thanks a lot,’ I say. ‘Still, I don’t see what practical good it would have done me. I’m still not going to be able to take shorthand or type decently even if you give me half a dozen diplomas.’

‘No, darling,’ says Penny. ‘But at least they would get you through the door, wouldn’t they? I’m certain one would pick it up in no time under actual working conditions – jumping jehosophat! I’ve just thought of something: Uncle Jack!’

‘What’s he got to do with it?’ I ask.

‘He’s one of Daddy’s brothers who owns an advertising agency. He doesn’t have a lot to do with it now but I’m certain he could find us a job.’

‘Why didn’t you think of this before?’ I say, wearily.

‘Well, you never think of your relations, do you? – not if you can help it. Anyway, the training will have done us some good. We can’t be completely useless, can we?’

I am not so certain and it is with heavy heart that I subsequently approach the impressive building in a square off Piccadilly that houses Breach, Sully, Crush and Reckitt – or B.S.C.R. as they are more widely known in the profession. I can see lots of people hurrying about behind the huge expanses of glass and there is something terribly intimidating about the sight of so much activity. It is like looking inside an ants’ nest. I wish Penny was with me but she is attending a wedding in Norfolk – as maid of honour. Really, I am not one to point the finger but it does seem a little like Jack the Ripper introducing the Magic Roundabout.

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