I’m in the very early stages of dating a man I shall refer to as the lawyer. We met on an online dating site, and so far seem well matched indeed. His name refers not only to his line of work but has relevance to me because of a piece of my history, and because of a certain film.
Many years ago I worked as a legal secretary in a small, old fashioned firm of solicitors. I was the secretary for the founding partner, but in times of high workloads and holidays I was expected to cover work for the other solicitor in our department, Mr W. I wanted him as soon as I saw him. He was everything the men I dated weren’t. He was polite, well spoken, intelligent, much older than me, sauve and sophisticated. He wore billowing white long sleeve shirts, fitted waistcoats and stylish cufflinks, even in the summer. Over the months we got to know each other and began flirting over the filing cabinets in his room.
Pretty soon the gawky young trainee secretary I’d started as was turning up for work in crisp pencil skirt suits, sleek haired and glossy lipped. His attentions made me feel attractive, his interest in me made me feel confident and the air of impropriety was all the more potent. I found more and more excuses to wind through the warren den of the offices to his room, shutting the door behind me and commencing flirting.
I imagined him kissing me as I was trapped against the filing cabinets. I wished I’d bump into him in the strongroom as I looked for title deeds and have furtive gropings against the shelves. I dreamed of locking the door of his office and fucking him on the desk. But in reality it was all looks, smiles and blushes. I bought him buns from the bakery that he threw away rather than put on weight, he made me cups of tea when I was too busy to leave my desk. I steered away the most annoying clients when he was frazzled, and he gave me lifts home when we worked late. Mostly we just flirted in a deniable kind of way, much to the chagrin of my boss who did all he could to keep us apart.
We often worked late nights together when my boss was on holiday, as he frequently was now he was approaching retirement. I worried myself that when my boss left I’d be out of a job, as Mr W had a secretary of his own. One night as Mr W drove me home in his expensive car I expressed my worries to him. He couldn’t see the problem, and so I decided to look for another job, in a bigger firm where they had more staff, better pay and a nicer environment. And so I went, upwards and onwards with my career. In my new company I was quickly promoted to a high stress, high volume position and got my own office. At the same time my long relationship began to fall apart irreversibly and ultimately end. One day I called the other side on a case to exchange contracts and there he was: Mr W. After the formalities were done, we agreed to meet for a drink after work.
I actually can’t remember how we took the step from (very) flirty friends to playmates. One day we’re having a glass of wine on a hot summer’s evening, the next I’m at his home, in his bedroom. With him I was first introduced to bottoming, and had my horizons significantly expanded as a top too. He taught me the importance and integrity of safewords, and although he wasn’t as good at negotiating or being honest, he did introduce me to a fuckton of fetishes.
After a while, word of our affair got round my office, and made things difficult for me. I’d already decided to leave when Mr W offered me a job as his secretary at a firm he was about to move to. It seemed too good to be true, but in the rashness of youth and an idealistic mindset, I went for a drink with the partners who were easily sold that this was a great idea.
At first everything was amazing. We’d flirt furiously via text whilst sat at our respective desks, and he’d ignore calls to watch me bend over to do the filing. We’d ‘accidentally’ bump into each other in the tiny stationary room and plot when we were going to play next. We’d go for long lunches and leave the office together every evening. I’d be spanked for making typos or misfiling something, and he’d be the big bad lawyer that I’d seduced. We had lots of fun, but we never fucked, or kissed. It was just play. Intoxicating, addictive, thrilling.
But all wasn’t right. I’d come out of a messy breakup and Mr W didn’t really want to support me as a friend. It also became apparent that he wasn’t being honest about his situation. I’d not see him in private for weeks at a time, him conjuring up excuses of having friends over, that his friend had broken up with her partner and needed a place to stay. One day as we drove up to his house he asked me to duck down so his neighbours wouldn’t see. I refused, but I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t cotton onto what was happening until much later. When I confronted him about it, he refused to speak about it.
He began to snap at me at work, and find faults where there were none. He’d deny I’d passed messages onto him from clients, and he’d lose attachments to letters I’d prepared. It all came to a head one day when he went ballistic at me over something tiny. He came over to my desk, towered above me, bellowing and insulting me. The only thing was that he didn’t see the senior partner sat behind her desk screen, listening to every word. I fled to the ladies in tears, and later that day he was told to pack up his desk and leave. And I’ve never seen him since.
When the film Secretary came out in 2002, I found it both arousing and uncomfortably similar to my experiences with Mr W. So many of the traits of Mr E. Edward Grey rang true, like his cold indifference, his OCD, his sudden bursts of temper and his obsession with working out. But unlike Mr E. Edward Grey, Mr W did not have a kind interior under all the layers of expensive tailored suits and bespoke perfume. He was utterly selfish, self centered and egotistical. A sociopath, a liar and a meglamaniac. I realised too late that he’d lied to me about being single, and that he’d abused a position of trust with a vulnerable person much younger than him.
That experience, as well as another one, made me reluctant to let my guard down again. To let a person into my mind and body in such a way. To open myself up to being dependent on another, to taste something I craved more and more only to have it snatched away. It made me suspicious of people’s real depth of feeling for me, and made me feel dirty and used in a bad way. It made me hold people at arm’s length for a long time, and to hold something of myself back from people. Giving up all control and power was unthinkably dangerous and scary.
That was many years ago, and I’ve only ever bottomed or submitted to someone once since. I love being dominant and topping, it is my natural state and I find it highly erotic. But there’s also a side to me that wants to be overpowered, taken, used, exposed, humiliated. I’ve been looking for my own Mr E. Edward Grey for a long time, and I may just have found him…
Confessions of a Cuckoldress 