the bitch and the chauffeur

I saw the pretty, little, golden curls.

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Copyright © 2013, Michael M Wayman

She turned away from me, I think she wanted a paper handkerchief from her handbag, I noticed her golden blonde hair, I saw the pretty, little, golden curls on the back of her head, I had to.

I kissed the back of her neck, I chewed her ear, I wandered my tongue across her cheek to her nose and down through her lips to the back of her mouth.

There are certain times that I remember from my life, the first boy I had, going to college, my first job, meeting the carboy who was different, rediscovering my sister. But this was the most important moment in my life, more so than meeting him.

He was larger than life, he was big, everybody called him The Boss. He was about twenty to thirty years older than me. When we met he had just two words for me “Impress me!” I took the sketchpad I keep in my bag and drew a picture of The Boss as Superman flying over the city.

“Oh, yes!” He gave me a job in his new advertising agency. It was a great success – the agency and my part in it – just great.

The Boss found the customers and the team created whatever the customer needed. After two years our agency is the best, though not the biggest.

The Boss was always out and about meeting customers, he had a chauffeur, who everybody called Showfie. He was driven everywhere.

The Boss needed a lot of control, to stop him doing things he shouldn't have done. Showfie was his minder. She told him what to do, never what not to do. Sometimes she did this when other people were there, but that did not trouble The Boss.

Showfie drove The Boss to the office every morning and poured herself a cup of coffee and sat around as if she owned the place. She chatted to me most mornings.

“Well, Offie.” She called me this because I work in an office. “You ask why The Boss doesn't drive himself – dunno, I really don't know. And the answer to the other question is – pretty good, almost as good as driving.”

“On Sundays I drive him to his golf club and leave him there. Maybe he plays golf. He certainly drinks with his friends in the club house and overnights in the club hotel. I pick him up on the Monday morning.”

I invited Showfie to my place that Sunday evening. It happened.

It was very good. “Better than driving.” to quote Showfie.

It was very bad. And it got worse, much worse.