Mistress - The Italian way. Delilah Jay

he was with whom -, or the other members of the board, or his secretary. Oh, what was it he said, so nicely:

      “I bought a telephone for my secretary that can send text messages from the office. Then I won’t have to listen to her voice anymore. The last one left me in tears, and all the others keep starting to snivel as soon as I bawl them out.”

      “Poor you! They treat you so badly,” I say, understandingly.

      Still was, then. I feel sorry for him when he loses his temper, when he gets upset, bursts into tears because he’s upset about believing he’s not a real man, not comprehending what he might mean by that, here and now, but learning all about it later... Not having any real, true, proper friends - imagine that!

      “Non so se sono un uomo vero!” - I don’t know whether I’m a real man.

      “Are you a man or a mouse?” they ask in England.

      His tears. I get to see the gentleness in him. Oh yes, I want him. Can’t imagine anyone else, ever. Only him. He and I. Not the powerful controller. See only his gentle side, the one he currently offers me. He smiles almost shyly, cries, shows his fragility, philosophizes. That’s the Amos I know. The one I love.

      That night he called me HIS geisha. I was proud, intellectual, randy and tireless. My head between his legs, his cock voraciously in my mouth. “La Passionata” - passion, passione. Is there an equivalent German term? If there is, I don’t know it. My body as perfect as his. He cried - as always: bemoaning his own present, his past and his future. Crying because he had no friends, no one who could understand him - only ME. I’ve been hearing this for over a year by now!

      “Do you love me?” I ask.

      “Yes. Aelita, I love you. I want you. Just you.”

      Am I just the psychologist? I’d prefer the lover... Completely forgetting about the phone calls and vows to Bellarosa... She no longer exists for me. Forgotten about, entirely!

      As always, we spent every waking moment screwing -day, night, morning.

      “I’ll take you to the station.” He smiled happily and I went to Watford, to the office. In the car, his hand, searching unerringly, sneaks up my thighs that I’ve opened in readiness. As ever. His hand inside of me, a last chance to keep my scent with him a while longer.

      My trip to Watford turns out to be not particularly exciting. Officially, I’ve just returned from visiting clients or potential clients in Switzerland. Nobody ever checks these things anyway. It’s my nature: a gambler, always skating on thin ice, always searching for new challenges, the ultimate thrill. Thank God I’m allowed to smoke on the train! And there is coffee! My vices that I almost don’t want to give up. Every time, they stand between Amos and me. The sun is shining - a rare treat in England, and I travel, dreaming of my next time with HIM - not a clue that this will be a long time in coming.