I’m in a relationship with my recruitment consultant. We’ve been together for over a month now, and so far everything’s going great. We email back and forth, speak almost every day, and each time she calls me my heart beats that little bit faster. In fact, just the sound of her cool, clipped, slightly detached voice is enough to make my cheeks flush and my cock stiffen.
Ok, it’s not what most people would consider a conventional relationship – for one thing, she doesn’t even know we’re an item – but the bond I have with Joanna is very intimate. She asks me about my hopes and dreams: where I see myself in five years, what I want to do with my life. We talk about the things I’m good at and the things I’d like to be good at. I open up to her about my weaknesses, and she comforts me whenever an interview goes badly. We share the same interests – running, wine, travel – and with her Polish parents my life in Warsaw is a good source of easy conversation.
Sometimes, just to change things up, I play hard to get. I let my mobile ring through to voicemail and then ignore her messages. I send gnomic replies to her follow-up emails. She’s a very demanding woman, so it’s exciting to push back against that. And while she’s never stern with me, if we haven’t spoken for a while there’s an edge to her inflection, and I can picture the furrow between her eyebrows as she frowns down the phone.
I can picture other things too. Filthy things. I stroke my cock and imagine her standing in front of me, fully-clothed, telling me what to do. She has an eye for detail, so her instructions would be precise and purposeful – her voice is low, and I don’t think it would waver, even when she moved closer and lifted her tight pencil skirt so I could please her with my tongue.
Or perhaps she spends so much time in control of things during the day that when she gets home all she wants is to be bent over the nearest hard surface and fucked till the last coherent thought tumbles out of her brain. I’ve thought about that – oh yes – and about the mornings too, when I’d interrupt her meticulous preparations for the day ahead to push my cock down her throat, or suck and squeeze her tits as she stands half-dressed in front of the mirror.
She’s good at eye contact, is Joanna – the one time we met in person, her gaze barely strayed from mine. I wondered afterwards what it would take to unsettle her. Would she still look me square in the eye if I fucked her arse just before she left for work, my cock smeared with her spit and lipstick? Would she button up the jacket she wears over her tight cream blouse, reapply her make-up, and give me a last, lingering look as she walked out of the door on trembling legs, ready for another day at the office? Would she bother to change her knickers if they were sticky with my cum?
I don’t think I’ll ever know the answers to those questions. We’ve had a very happy month together, but it’s nearly time for us to go our separate ways. Yesterday I had my final interview for the last of the three roles she’s been working on. We spoke afterwards, a warm, light-hearted chat as I walked to the tube station. At the end of it, she suggested that we might go for a drink or two, once the verdict’s in – her treat, to thank me for being such a good candidate.
I was flattered. I smiled. I politely declined.
That would be unprofessional.