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Bethany's Summer Job 

Bethany's Summer Job

Chapter One


From my earliest years I can remember people telling me how cute I was. Then as I got older they changed it to 'beautiful'. “What a beautiful little girl”, they'd say. It was mostly elderly people, but also other women. The men kept their mouths shut, of course. Except my father, who agreed entirely.

Men being men, however, and him being my father, that caused him to fight my mother over my extra-curriculum activities fairly early in my life. And he won. So instead of ballet I wound up at karate class. I was a black belt before I hit puberty.

My father felt being able to defend myself would both give me confidence, and protect me from predatory men. He was entirely right and entirely wrong. Though I'll get to that in due course.

My being attractive and being able to beat up all the boys did indeed give me a lot of confidence in myself. I grew up in a world of very liberal views of equality and feminism. Any man or boy who made a sexist remark or had a sexist attitude was basically a heretic, and treated as such.

I must, I was taught, insist and demand respect at all times, and in order to deserve that respect I must comport myself with a dignity and poise which befitted a modern woman. None of that giggly, eye-batting girly stuff for me! None of that pouting at boys to get my way, or pretending to be the weak little girl so a boy would do something for me I didn't want to do myself.

I was above that! I was mature, sensible, progressive, and held my shoulders back and head high!

And I was entirely comfortable with that most of the time. There was only one part of my life where that attitude confused me. And that was sex and dating. At first I dated boys with the attitude that they must respect me, and do absolutely nothing physical without my permission. They must respect my intellect, my personality, and only peripherally my body.

If you've ever known, much less been a teenage boy, you know that's just not going to happen. Especially since I was gifted with a very nice body to go along with my face and long, soft hair, and of course, a home-gym and access to the trainer who came to visit my mother once a week.

I was slender, toned, but curved sufficiently to attract the notice of just about every boy around. My breasts aren't the biggest, but they're perfect, or so I'm told. They're high and round and because of how fit and toned I am, extremely firm. I also have a great ass.

So getting teenage boys to respect me for my mind was just not going to work. At best they pretended, and I had to make do with that. The thing is I wasn't even sure I wanted them to pretend. I knew what I had been told about equality, but I just wasn't feeling much emotional commitment to it in terms of sex and dates.

I liked guys... guys. Not boys, not soft, sensitive men. I liked GUYS. Oh, of course I mocked them and laughed at their one-track minds. I, like other young women, was bemused by their fixation with cars, computers and sports. But I was in love with muscular shoulders and chests and arms!

My mother kept pushing these intelligent, sensitive, feminist young guys at me and couldn't understand why I kept dating jocks, who she dismissed with various pejorative terms. I was supposed to respect men for their minds, not their bodies, just the way they were to respect me. Only I had this squirmy hot sensation when I saw the bodies I liked. And their minds just didn't do the same thing for me.

I went to a very liberal private school, and then a very progressive liberal arts college. Even the jocks were, well, mostly fairly well-tamed in these institutions. And that, after some time, was the problem. I didn't want a sensitive, sophisticated guy. I wanted a beefy animal! I wanted Conan the Barbarian! I wanted a man who would tear my clothes off, throw me over his shoulder, and take me off to ravish me!

At least, that was my fantasy. My deep, dark sexual fantasy that I told no one about. Especially my very progressively feminist girlfriends.

You don't tell people like that about your desire to have a man use you, to have him treat you like a whore, to treat you with disrespect. But it was a fantasy that lived on for years, my favorite one when masturbating.

I took pre-law, mostly to please my parents. I wasn't sure I wanted to be a lawyer. But with them it was either a doctor, a lawyer, an engineer or an architect. Something like that anyway, and I had no interest in the others.

After two years my parents arranged for me to get a summer job working for a law firm. I don't mean a 'law clerk' because I didn't know enough for that. I was basically to be a substitute secretary, except they called them administrative assistants, during the summer vacation period. It was to get some office experience on my resume.

For the first few weeks things were boring. I was assigned to various partners – since the lower level lawyers didn't merit their own admin assistant. It was kind of exciting to dress up and go to work in a big office high in an office tower, but the work itself was not terribly complex or difficult.

And then came Mister Drake.

Two weeks was long enough to start to be keyed into the office gossip. I had never met the man, but I had heard him described, variously, as 'difficult', 'arrogant', 'nasty', and a 'cold, miserable bastard'. Needless to say, I wasn't looking forward to working for him, even for a week.

But I wasn't anxious or nervous like other girls might have been. It was that confidence. I wasn't afraid of some jerk in an office, and I didn't need the job anyway. If he was nasty to me I'd be nasty right back. And if I got punished for it I'd sue the bastard and the law firm.

I was not raised to take crap from anyone.

His door was closed when I arrived. I was told his door would usually be closed. He was not a very sociable man. Allison, the senior secretary, did knock, however, and bring me in to introduce me. I accompanied her through the door with my jaw set, and ready to fight back.

“Mister Drake,” she said, “This is Bethany, who will be subbing for you this week.”

This was a very odd office. It had the same floor to ceiling glass windows as the others I'd seen, but the rest of it was... very out of the ordinary. It was stylish, don't get me wrong. But the carpet was blood red. The desk behind which Drake sat was black marble. The wallpaper was swirly dark gray. The lamps were black and leather furniture was red, including the chairs around a black stone table.

Mister Drake was black. And he wore a black suit with a black shirt, and gray tie.

He was a large man with broad shoulders and a broad chest. He looked like a football player, and had a shaved head, and deep, dark eyes that looked at me like he was analyzing everything about me with one steely glance.

“Is she going to be here longer than a day?” he asked.

His voice was deep and melodic, but sort of angry.

“We hope so,” Allison said calmly.

“Because I'm getting tired of these girls coming and going,” he continued.

“We've discussed that previously, Mr. Drake,” she said.

He glowered at her, then dismissed her – and me, going back to whatever he'd been doing on his computer.

Allison led me back out and had me sit in the desk next to the now-closed door. She gave me a few instructions on his preferences, and showed me a list of duties, and then rolled her eyes at the door and left.

I was not as intimidated as most girls might have been. I wasn't intimidated at all, in fact. I don't get intimidated. I had thought there was something slightly menacing in Drake, a controlled violence, and that, frankly, kind of turned me on.

He wasn't an older man, either. He was probably thirty or so. I wondered how he'd made partner so young. I got on the firm's web site and looked up his name. He was a graduate of Harvard law, which was where I was supposed to be headed after Browns. He had graduated summa cum laude, which meant he finished in the top 5% of his class.

So he was no dummy. Maybe they'd made him a partner soon for equity reasons, just so they could show everyone they had a black partner. Mind you, they had about twenty five partners, so they could afford a token.

I checked his emails and the files, but since I had no instructions from him there wasn't a lot to do but go on Facebook on my iPhone.

Until the phone buzzed. I knew that was the intercom so I picked it up, using my most professional voice.

“Yes, Mister Drake?”

“Get in here,” he said.

He hung up and I shrugged and put the phone down. So he wasn't polite. So fuck him.

I got up and went to the door, then knocked briefly before opening it and going inside.

He was looking at his computer, he turned and snapped his finger at me, then turned back to it. I felt a flush of anger, but repressed it, my mind working. This guy had to be intelligent to graduate summa cum laude, so why was he acting like a dick to me?

I moved forward to the edge of his desk anyway, waiting patiently and calmly and with no expression on my face.

He looked up at me, then turned fully to look at me. For several seconds he did just that. I wondered if he was trying to make me nervous or flustered. He didn't scan up and down my body, just looked me in the eyes.

“Well, you're different,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow.

“You seem less flighty than most of the girls they send me.”

I didn't know what to say about that so said nothing.

“Most of them seem scared of me. Are you scared of me, girl?”

“No, Mister Drake,” I said truthfully.

He stood up and came around his desk to stand before me. He was a tall man, and I felt that hot little tingling lower in my belly at the size of him. I was five foot eight, which is tall for a woman. He was well over six feet, maybe six and a half.

“Why not? I'm a big, dangerous looking black guy,” he said, looking down at me.

I raised my eyebrows again.

“You're a lawyer who graduated summa cum laude from Harvard not that long ago. It's possible you could be insane, I suppose, but I think that's unlikely. Barring insanity on your part I cannot imagine what motivation would make you a physical threat to me.”

He continued looking at me, then eased back a half step.

“So. A smart girl. Where are you going to school, smart girl?”


He snorted and I gave him a look.

“You enjoying yourself?”

“Yes,” I said shortly.

“How long you been going there?”

“I will be entering my third year in the fall.”

“Hate men yet?”


I wasn't surprised at the query. It was a famously liberal and feminist college.

“You know what I did at Harvard?”

“You were on the basketball team.”

He nodded. “That's how I got a scholarship.”

“I like liberals,” he said. “The problem is they tend to be ridiculously easy to offend. Especially liberal women. Oh, they all cut me lots of slack because I'm Black, but I make them uncomfortable just the same.”

“You don't make me uncomfortable,” I said.

“You know anything about African American culture, girl?”

“Not much.”

“Feminism is not as heavily set among us. African American men don't tend to be as sensitive and respectful as white men. They haven't allowed themselves to be castrated.”

“Good to know,” I said.

I didn't mean to flick my eyes down. It was more or less instinctive, and I almost blushed when I flicked them back up, wondering if I'd been too flip, too disrespectful. He seemed like one of those touchy minorities with a chip on his shoulder, even while complaining about feminist liberal women.

He took a half step forward again so I had to cock my head higher.

“Anytime you want to see them, girl, you just ask,” he said in a soft voice.

It was not a voice calculated to seduce. It was not a leering voice. It was a challenging, in-your-face sort of voice.

I just looked back calmly, keeping my eyes up this time.

He stepped back and picked up some papers on the desk.

“Photocopies. Stapled and double sided.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, taking them from his hand.

Boy, he had big hands!

I went and did the photocopies. It wasn't complicated. The machine did it all once you punched in the right selection on the menu. I returned to his office, knocked twice, then opened it and walked in.

He turned and glowered at me as I approached his desk.

“Next time, girl, wait for me to tell you to come in,” he snapped.

I was a little startled, and flushed slightly. “Yes, sir,” I said.

He indicated his in-basket and I put the documents there.

“Is a girl from Brown too high and mighty to get coffee for her boss?” he asked challengingly.

“Black, I presume?”

He snorted but didn't look amused.

“I like a little white sugar,” he said.

Again, it was a kind of challenging tone and it matched the way he looked at me.

Was this guy coming on to me?! Or maybe just taunting me?

That just wasn't done in today's kind of office! Not that I really minded.

“How much?”

“Two cubes.”

He didn't say 'please' much, I noted.

Nor 'thank you'.

I went out, and a snapped “Close the door!” followed me when I left it open. I went back and closed it, then headed for the break room to get him some coffee. I suppose in some ways I was lowering myself. I was an administrative assistant, after all, and getting coffee was not on our task list, unless it was for some sort of group gathering.

I didn't mind. It let me stretch my legs, and my sense of pride didn't hinge on petty things like that.

There were a lot of younger men at the firm, and they looked up whenever I walked past their desks. The ones I knew smiled and said hello. I was used to it. All my life, well, since puberty, men and boys had been behaving in an ingratiating way to me, trying to befriend me, impress me, hoping I would let them fuck me.

Because I wasn't under any illusion there was a lot else to their behavior. At least, for most of them. If they didn't know me then they were reacting to my looks, and that meant they thought I was hot and wanted to do me. I didn't resent that. It was a fact of life. But it didn't particularly impress me either.

And frankly, I hadn't had an abundance of great sexual experiences with men. Most of them, it seemed to me, lacked patience, subtlety, and experience. Or if they had experience it was of the wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am variety. I had yet to meet a guy who was any damn good at oral sex, for example, for all they expected girls to be porn stars.

I had had a couple of decent lesbian experiences in college. They, at least, had more knowledge about what they were doing, and more interest in my pleasure. But the guys, even the sensitive ones, didn't seem to have the knack of really turning me on.

Whereas I could give guys erections just by walking in front of them. Yes, I've done it. And not even in something revealing either, or even intentionally. Guys are just so damn easy to turn on! One guy I had dated had put his hand on the back of my neck, just under my hair, and gotten an instant erection just from the feel of my warm, soft skin against his fingers. Geeze.

I brought the coffee back, knocked and paused, waiting. The wait took too long, and I figured he was seeing if I'd just obediently wait until he said to come in or try it anyway. I waited. If his coffee got cold that was his damn problem.

“Come,” I heard.

I opened the door and carried his coffee across to his desk, then set it down carefully.

Those dark eyes looked at me again, like they were probing my very existence.

“Can you spell, girl?”

It was on the tip of my tongue to say, “My name is Bethany thanks,” but I didn't. I half suspected he was expecting me to, waiting for me to. He was too smart to be this ignorant. Which meant he was playing mental games.

“Moderately well,” I replied.

He pointed at the cabinet by the window.

“That cabinet. Take everything out and put it in alphabetical order.”

I hesitated, but then started to head over there.

“Close the door first.”

I hesitated again, then went back and closed the door.

Was this supposed to make me nervous again? It didn't. I went over to the cabinet. It was only two drawers, so I had to kneel down. I started with the top drawer, pulled it out, and examined the file folders. They were stored by date.

“I'll have to make new tab dividers,” I said.

“I'm sure that's not beyond your abilities,” he replied.

I got up and turned to look at him.

“Do you want just A-Z or further divisions?”

“A to Z is fine.”

I nodded, and left him alone, closing the door behind me. I went to Allison, who unlocked the supply room, and I got some of the folders with tabs. I didn't even have to make them since they were pre-printed. I knocked and waited and waited and waited.


Dick, I thought.

I entered and closed the door behind me, then went back to the cabinet and knelt down. I pulled the folders out, discarded the old date tabs and replaced them with alphabetic ones. I paused to consider, then began to examine the folders, putting them in separate piles along the floor according to alphabet.

I did one row, then another, making them wide enough I could access each pile without getting up. I did this while kneeling, sitting on my heels, but of necessity it also involved a lot of leaning forward to reach the further piles.

I was wearing pants this day, a cream colored pair of snug dress pants. It didn't matter that they were snug because I had a matching blazer which covered my bottom.

Except, of course, when bending over.

I wondered if Drake was looking at my ass every time I bent over. I was fairly sure he was. Most guys would have been. That kind of made me feel smug. I have a nice ass. Everyone says so. It's firm and toned like the rest of me. Guys liked looking at it. They liked touching it – a lot. Girls did too, come to that.

He didn't say anything, and I wasn't about to try to catch him, by, you know, quickly swiveling my head around to look behind me. What would that get me? I suppose if I caught him he might be flustered and duck his eyes. That's what they usually did. Then they denied looking.

I put a file on a further pile and sat back on my heels, then was startled by movement. I turned around and he was standing right there, which meant I was looking into his crotch! I gulped and raised my eyes up – and up – and up to see him looking down at me.

With those dark eyes.

“Girl,” he said. “You own a gun?”


“Uhm, no, sir,” I said.

“You ever try shooting a gun?”

“Once or twice,” I said slowly, confused.

He squatted down in front of me.

“You remember the first thing they told you about it?”

I stared at him, frowning. Where the hell was he going with this?

“Don't point it at anyone?”

“Right,” he said, as if patiently talking to a fool. “You never aim a weapon at someone unless you mean to use it.”

Then he got up and left the room.

What the fuck!?

I shook my head and returned to the filing and then halted.

Was he talking about my ass?!

What would he mean by that? My ass was a weapon?! Was that a compliment!?

And if it was, was he crazy to compliment my ass here at the office? I mean, we hardly knew each other!?

Of course, he technically hadn't said anything about my ass.

I got back to the filing, but now that he was gone I also paused and reached up for my hair, drawing it back from the sides, and lifting it up behind my collar.

My hair is a little past shoulder length. I usually wear it down when I want to look good, like at the office, where I wanted to make a good impression. But it was getting in the way as I kept leaning forward. I drew it up and back in a loose half-up, half-down kind of knot, then returned to my work.

As it happened, I was on my hands and knees when he came back. He didn't say anything, but I heard the movement. I was actually on my knees and elbows because I had used my hands to open a folder and was examining the header briefly.

And yes, my butt was aimed right at him.

I looked behind me. He was looking. But his eyes didn't drop and he didn't look the least bit like he'd been caught doing anything he shouldn't be. I sat back on my heels and he sat down at his desk.

This felt... weird. I was feeling a kind of sexual electricity, a dark, dangerous, steamy sort of sexual electricity, such as I rarely ever felt. I wasn't sure if he even had much interest in me beyond noting I had a nice ass. And he was unlikely to be crazy enough to start something with a temp girl in his office anyway.

But I could feel my nipples kind of prickling and tightening inside the cups of my bra.

Bet you'd like to see them, wouldn't you, Mister Drake? I thought to myself.

I was careful where I aimed my 'weapon', though, as I finished sorting the first batch and put them into the bottom drawer. Then I put the rest into the top drawer. Finished. I turned and found him standing there again.