Megan Hart - Switch

bound to his whim, that I'd have to fight and struggle

against him if I want to get free. And I can, he hasn't tied

me so tightly I can't.

I just don't want to.

His cock is long and thick. It fils me, al the way. I'm

stretched from the inside.

I don't have to do a thing. He takes control, he sets the

pace, and it's perfect. I don't have to direct him. He just

knows. Every thrust presses something sweet until I cry

out.

I ride the waves of pleasure. I lose myself in it. Up and

over, writhing on his dick as he slaps my ass once, twice.

It doesn't hurt bad enough to keep me from coming al

over his prick and al over my hand.

It wasn't a unique fantasy, as far as fantasies went. What

made it different from others I'd had was the man in it

wasn't an actor or an anonymous quiltwork of features. It

was Mr. Mystery, of course, and though my own hand

had done the work, it had been his face that set me off.

had done the work, it had been his face that set me off.

And with that in my head, I went to sleep.

Chapter 10

The next morning I woke with a craving for oatmeal.

The power of suggestion, I told myself as I mixed water

into the contents of the packet I found shoved way back in

my cupboard, formerly ignored in favor of diet soda and

junk food. That was al. But when the maple-syrupy

goodness hit my tongue, I knew that wasn't al it was.

It had been a simple command. Eat oatmeal for breakfast.

Sweeten it however you like. Straightforward and

uncomplicated.

It had taken away the issue of what to have for breakfast,

a problem I faced every morning as I rushed around trying

to get ready and spent precious minutes staring without

enthusiasm into my refrigerator. I didn't have to think about

what to have, or waste time concerning myself. Eat

oatmeal for breakfast, the list had said, and I did.

I'd eaten oatmeal every day as a kid. Sometimes for

dinner, too. My mom bought it in bulk from an Amish

market. Great huge tubs of big, roled oats. Not the fancy

kind with Benjamin Franklin or whoever he was on the

kind with Benjamin Franklin or whoever he was on the

front. The kind you had to slow cook. Funny how I hadn't

thought about how easy, filing and tasty oatmeal could

realy be until I got that note.

Even though the mail almost always was delivered or in the

process of being delivered before I had to leave for work,

many times I didn't care to brave the crowd flocking

around the mailboxes and just waited to pick it up after

work. Until recently, I'd never had anything exciting to

pick up.

This morning, though, I muscled my way through the

crowd and puled my mail from the box. My heart

pounded as I flipped through the junk and bils. I had a

postcard from my dentist reminding me I was due for an

exam.

And a new note.

Today, you wil be strong and know you are beautiful.

Wow.

I closed the card, returned it to the envelope, and slid it

through the slot of mailbox 114. I didn't stop to hide what

I was doing, not caring if anyone saw me do it, though at

I was doing, not caring if anyone saw me do it, though at

that moment the flock of tenants had flown away and I

was the only one there. I peered through the glass window

at the card in its cradle of other mail and wondered how

such a simple command could have completely stolen

away my breath.

Paul traveled often, so it wasn't unusual for me to go

several days or a week without seeing him. On the days he

was in the office, though, he never failed to come out to

greet me when he heard me arrive, or if I'd managed to get

to my desk ahead of him, he always stopped to say good-

morning. But not today. I heard him muttering into the

phone through his closed door, but he didn't come out. He

had, however, left something for me on the desk.

A list.

It didn't tel me to be strong or know I was beautiful, but I

couldn't stop thinking about that as I read the chores and

tasks he'd left for me. He hadn't given me anything out of

the ordinary. It was only my reaction that was different.

I would never have said we had a close relationship, but it

was always cordial. On the day he'd taken out my splinter,

it might even have gone beyond that to warm. Too warm

it might even have gone beyond that to warm. Too warm

for Paul, apparently, because he barely looked at me when

he came out of his office around eleven, his coat on and his

briefcase gripped so tight in one hand his knuckles were

white. I sat up straighter at my desk.

Strong and beautiful.

"I'l be gone until about four."

He didn't need my permission, of course, so it was stupid

to say, "Okay."

That was al he said. Tension like gum stuck to the bottom

of a sneaker stretched between us. He wouldn't look at

me.

This pissed me off.

I hadn't asked him to treat my wound. I hadn't made him

touch me. And I wasn't going to sic him with a sexual-

harassment suit or anything asinine like that, either.

He nodded, his gaze cutting away from mine. "Bye."

"Goodbye, Paul."

I could see the crimson creeping into his ears even from

my seat at the desk. He didn't acknowledge me after that,

just left. That pissed me off, too.

I hadn't become an executive assistant because I'd

dreamed of it ever since I was a little girl. I became an

executive assistant because nobody seems to have

secretaries anymore. And because it was the cheapest and

fastest business degree I could earn that would qualify me

for a position in the range of salaries that would alow me

to move the hel out of Lebanon and start a new life.

I never intended to stay at this level forever. I'd taken the

job with Kely Printing because of their employee-

education program. I had to work there for a year before I

could start taking night classes toward my MBA, a cost

the company would partialy reimburse if I qualified, and

I'd make sure I did. I wasn't an executive assistant

because I didn't want to be something else. Just too poor.

And until today, I'd never felt bad about what I did, this

one step up on a ladder that had many rungs.

The list he'd left hadn't been written with fine ink on

creamy paper, just scribbled on the back of a paper

already printed on one side in handwriting so fiercely

already printed on one side in handwriting so fiercely

indecipherable that reading it was like cracking code. It

wasn't a long list but even so, it was a list and I looked at it for a long time.

That piece of paper, those numbered sentences, effectively

broke my day into chunks. They provided a purpose, a

path, a pattern. I didn't need Paul to give me that; I was

more than capable of prioritizing my daily duties, and yet,

staring at the instructions gave me a sense of

accomplishment before I'd even completed a single task.

It surprised him, I think, when he came back to the office

just after I should have left. I hadn't dawdled, but the list

had been very long and some of the tasks I hadn't yet been

trained for. I'd figured them out, though, my fingers tap-

tapping on the keyboard as I filed in data spreadsheets

and saved files and sent e-mails. I was shutting down my

computer as he disappeared into his office.

I took my time gathering my sweater and water bottle. In a

moment Paul reappeared in his doorway. Paul had not