Power Girl
- 3 years ago
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Power Relationship free porn video
The customer looked confused and unhappy. An elderly woman glancing nervously at all the technological gadgetry on display.
‘Can I help you, madam?’ It wasn’t easy in my present mood, but I forced out my widest grin. The one that seldom failed to reassure the less technical customers, and made me feel proud of my justified skill in putting them at their ease. Usually they relaxed instantly and poured out their shameful feelings about their lack of technical skills, knowing they had found a kindred spirit. My bosses acknowledged that my cheerfulness and real desire to help these people gave me an edge when it came to selling to these more diffident customers. My sex helped too. There were not many women assistants in this male dominated field.
The customer glared at me. This was so not what I was expecting, that I cringed. Maybe she could sense that my smile was false. ‘I’m looking for a smartphone with Android capability that is also compatible with Ubuntu Linux based software,’ she said.
I didn’t want to admit I had no idea what Ubuntu was, so I cleared my throat nervously preparing to ask her more questions.
‘You must know what Ubuntu is,’ she snapped.
‘I’m afraid…’
The woman rolled her eyes and sighed. Audibly enough for a man in his thirties with a wispy moustache to look up from his stocktaking and move towards us.
‘What seems to be the problem, madam?’ My supervisor Bob was all smiles now. Not like half an hour ago when he was yelling at me for taking too long in the toilet.
‘This young lady is not being very helpful.’
How Bob managed to combine an obsequious smile at the customer with a contemptuous dismissive gesture towards myself I had no idea, but then he is the master of the non-verbal put down. They must teach it in management school.
‘I’ll take over from here, Maxine,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you could start packing up for the evening.’
I turned away, my eyes glistening. I should be used to the waspish customers, my eye rolling boss and my aching feet by now, but being snubbed so expertly by the little old lady felt like being bitten by a butterfly. On today of all days, a miserable winter afternoon where the rain was rippling in sheets outside, it was just too much.
When five o’clock came round, I slunk out of the shop without saying goodbye to anyone, ran through the sheeting rain to my car, then burst into tears.
When I got home I saw the dishes I had forgotten the night before. My flat mate Clarissa would growl at me I knew, but somehow I just couldn’t face them. I couldn’t even muster the energy to push the dirty dishes to one side while I made myself some dinner, even though that only involved chucking a few things out of the freezer and heating them up. I dragged myself into my bedroom, turned on the electric blanket – cheaper than the bar heater – huddled into bed, and howled, the more so when I remembered the embarrassing session of the previous night on that same bed.
I recalled the sound of grunting, the feeling of a foreign object rubbing inside me, the bed creaking, then the smell of semen and rubber as Brian finished his business, slipped off me, made his excuses and left.
He was one of a series, like serial killers, only in my case more like the serially dead. Each of them say they love me, then each of them bonk me and leave me, hurting me in the process – physically as well as emotionally.
The type of parting varies. Some would loudly accuse me of being frigid, or a lesbian, then there were the nicer ones, who would be more circumlocutory, waffling about how I was a ‘nice girl… not you but me… just need time to find myself…’ yada, yada, but it came to the same thing in the end: I was just a lousy lay. For some reason, while I crave the intimacy of close contact, when things get hot and dirty I just tense up inside, leading to disappointment all round, an ache in my crotch, lovers’ balls and recriminations.
I had just started to get warm and sleepy when my phone rang. I hauled it out of my pocket and looked at the display. It was mum. I didn’t want to talk to her. She loved me I know, but I just couldn’t cope with her preaching at the moment. I know I’m a disappointment to my mum. She went back to work when dad left her and has done a lot more with her life than me. I let the phone ring, the trilling sound of the latest phone software lulling me back towards slumber. I could hardly afford to heat my room, but thanks to generous staff discounts and easy repayment options where I worked, I had no problem buying the latest electronic gadgetry.
My phone changed its tone to a harsher beep, there was a new message for me on Facebook. I glanced at it without enthusiasm – then gave a second look. It was from Andrew, the one tutor during my tech course who had encouraged me, didn’t always look at me in a way that suggested that somewhere on the planet Zog a mother was still wondering where her daughter had got to.
Andrew had urged me to go back to tech and finish the courses I had missed and needed to complete my degree. If he was to be my tutor then I would have done so, but he had left the same time I did. Something about his teaching being too controversial and offending the powerful council, who had ties with the influential primary industry organisations. ‘The entire economy of New Zealand is based on killing,’ he told us in one of his classes once. Quite true when you think of it, but not the sort of thing that would endear him to the establishment. Andrew was now living in Wellington where he was doing something with the activism community.
After all my friends had graduated and moved to different parts of the country, I dropped out of tech and moved back to Opotane to be near my mother, who had just started working at an environmental consultancy firm. My good friends from tech became just Facebook friends, together with Andrew, and the boyfriends, most of whom unfriended me after the first disappointing sex session.
I read through Andrew’s message. ‘Hi Maxine. I have a job interview in Opotane next Thursday. Would be great to catch up if you are available.’
It would be nice to see a friendly face from my past. I messaged back. ‘Would love to. Congrats on the interview. Do you need me to help in any other way?’ I thought he may like to stay overnight if he didn’t want to tackle the long drive to and from Wellington twice in one day.
A reply came back almost immediately. ‘Can you pretend to be my GF for the interview? They allow whanau support, and they kept asking me all these questions about why I wanted to move to a small town. To be honest, it doesn’t attract me that much, but as things stand I would take a job in Syria if one was offered. A local GF may help my chances.’
I knew that as a concession to Maori applicants, who supposedly had strong family ties and made decisions collectively, companies advertising for more senior positions allowed applicants to bring along spouses, family members or significant others to interviews. It would be considered racist to only allow this privilege to the native Maori, so many non-Maori also took advantage of this ‘whanau support.’ Needless to say I had never been interviewed for jobs at the level where such solicitous regard for the applicants’ well being was part of the process.
It was an odd request, but it put a smile on my face. Then I wondered why I had become such a sad case that even the idea of accompanying an older man as a pretend girlfriend lifted my spirits. I messaged back.
‘So does that mean sex LOL :)’
As soon as I had sent the reply I regretted it. Andrew was my teacher for God’s sake, not some acne-scarred youth I had picked up in a pub. What would he think of me?
Again the reply came back straight away. I was afraid to look. But then I felt a fluttering inside me as I read it.
‘I wouldn’t mind. You are after all very attractive. But it’s not necess
ary I will shout you dinner afterwards.’
The message cheered me up somewhat. Not enough to get out of bed, clean the dishes, make some dinner, ring my mother or do the other chores I had to do, but enough to sit up and think of a flirtatious reply. I don’t know why. I already know I’m attractive. I have silky honey coloured hair, high cheek bones, a body that is curvaceous without being plump, and at twenty four, I am at just about the right age for the male cuteness factor, especially to someone older like Andrew, who I know had a firm appreciation of his female students’ bodies, though he never tried anything on.
So most boys called me attractive, and most wanted to get into my knickers – until they discovered there is not much inside them. No, the reason I was pleased was because Andrew appeared to have no particular interest in scoring with me, so I knew his words were not empty flattery.
I started to think about Andrew. Not in bed with me, as I had thought about most of the men I had gone out with, but in a fancy restaurant – perhaps the French one in town, the one the boys never took me to because it was ‘too pretentious’ as they called it, though I think it was because they were too cheap.
I composed a reply, feeling a tingling in my crotch as I did so. Andrew had been an encouraging and respectful tutor and I would be glad to help him out if I could get the time off work, then later I could take him up on that offer of a meal. And I knew that realistically that would be as far as it would go with someone old enough to be my father. The very thought of my father was enough to kill any sexual feelings.
‘Be glad to.’ I wrote. ‘I don’t work Tuesday afternoons, so no problem’ Not true that. But I would be pleased to take time off from my boring routine. ‘Dinner sounds nice. CU then.’
‘Great!! Looking forward to it,’ Andrew wrote back.
‘What’s the place your interview is at?’ I asked.
When I read Andrew’s reply, I got out of bed. The grease-smeared dishes were still glistening malevolently at me, but now I felt strong enough to tackle them. Later I made myself a salad with the fresh vegetables in the fridge, mixing my own dressing and cooking some potatoes and mushrooms to go with it. It took me a lot longer than my normal diet of chops with freezer-sourced mixed veges and white bread, but it was so much more satisfying. I flopped in front of the TV with an unfamiliar yet comforting eaten-well feeling. When Clarissa returned from her late shift at the hospital I actually spoke to her, instead of being my normal monosyllabic self.
‘Don’t know what’s got into you, Maxine,’ she said. ‘You’re almost cheerful this evening. I think you must be in love.’ Spoiling the mood somewhat. I denied this vigorously and went back to bed to continue my interrupted sulk.
#
I met Andrew in the town centre just before the interview. I had dressed nicely in a winter dress with tights, not my usual jeans, and put on a long sleeved top that accentuated my breasts. I had combed my hair and washed it till it sparkled in the winter sun. The interview was important, and I owed it to Andrew to look my best. At least that’s the excuse I gave to myself.
Andrew was not bad looking in spite of his age, and he could almost pass for my older brother. Being vegetarian and keeping fit, his figure had not gone to pot, and while his arms and chest were a bit skinny for my taste, I had certainly been seen out with worse looking men.
‘It’s good to see you,’ I said as I moved forward to give him a hug. I could see Andrew was diffident about touching me, a relic of his teaching days, where he would be conscious of the power relationship he had, and not wanting to abuse it. But when I initiated contact, he responded willingly enough. I felt his arms wrap around me and squeeze the soft part near my kidneys. They felt warm and comforting. Andrew seemed to leave them there a little longer than was strictly expected behaviour, then he disengaged and looked at me.
‘It’s great you’ve agreed to this. Does your boyfriend mind?’
‘I don’t have a boyfriend.’ I had mixed feelings as I admitted this, some of them hidden from myself. Did I want him to take a hint, I wondered.
‘I’m surprised at that,’ he said. ‘ I thought an attractive warm hearted person like yourself would have no problem with finding young men.’
‘Attractive maybe, but I’m just a dumb blonde.’ Now here I was fishing for compliments. Stink.
‘You’re not dumb,’ he said. ‘I admit when you decided to go on and do the degree I was surprised, and I didn’t think much of your chances after the way you had struggled through the diploma, but remember I had been following your progress for three years, and I was impressed with your improvement. I told you at the time if you remember.’
‘Yes I remember, but I thought you just told everyone that so they would stay.’
‘Why would I want to do that? I’m paid the same whether students stay or leave, and the last thing I want is a lot of dead heads in my classroom, making it harder for me and for the others. You were never one of the top students, but you worked hard and you learned enough to become an acceptable one. And remember even making it through to university study shows an uncommon level of intelligence and dedication. I don’t know why you didn’t stay and finish your degree.’
I lapsed into silence. It seemed Andrew wasn’t at all set on getting into my knickers. If he was he would have come on stronger, told me I was brilliant instead of just acceptable. I wouldn’t have believed him of course, but it would have given me an ego boost lasting sufficiently long for me to agree to sleep with him.
I wondered why I was so disappointed. It would only end in disaster as it had with every other boy after all. By now we had walked in through the double doors of Stonkins, the environmental consultancy company where the interview was located, and Andrew was speaking to the receptionist. Within a very short time we were ushered into the interview room.
There were three people on the interview panel. Two rather boring middle aged men in suits, and a pretty honey-blonde middle aged woman, who gave a start when we came into the room. Strange to think that Andrew was the same age as the other two men, because he appeared much younger. It was not just his looks, though Andrew’s hair was still wavy and brown, not receding and greying like the other two, but something in his temperament that made it seem as if he was less settled in his ways and still had a lot of his life ahead of him.
The interview seemed to be going well, with the three panellists smiling and nodding at everything Andrew said to them. I could understand why Andrew wanted a younger woman like myself as his escort. He was making himself out to be younger than he was, and it appeared to be working. The two men wanted someone they could patronise, not an equal who may challenge them, and the woman also seemed not averse to having a younger male colleague. I felt an irrational stab of jealousy when she started staring at Andrew more than was necessary, which allowed me to play my own part, and answer the questions about our proposed domestic life in this town quite convincingly.
Andrew answered all the technical questions in a very knowledgeable manner. He had always been very clever. The best tutor in the school as far as scientific ability went. But as the interview wore on, I realised that Andrew had no idea how to ingratiate himself, especially with the men. It was obvious to me that they wanted him to ask them more about their work, and to stroke their egos. They were no different after all from the bosses where I worked.
When one of them mentioned a minor administrative initiative he had made, he paused so that Andrew could tell us how clever he was. Andrew did not get the hint at all. If I did not know better I would have said he was a remarkably stupid man.
‘That sounds wonderful w
hat you’ve done, Mr. Brown,’ I chipped in. ‘I’m sure Andrew appreciates it too.’ I surreptitiously poked Andrew in the side.
‘Yes, though it does seem rather standard. I’ve been using the same system myself in all my work,’ Andrew replied. Mr Brown, who had looked pleased and smug when I praised him, lowered his head and frowned.
‘We will let you know, Andrew,’ he said eventually. The three panellists shook Andrew’s hand, then mine, and soon we were outside the doors again.
‘Why didn’t you admire Mr Brown’s achievement?’ I demanded. ‘You must have known he wanted you to.’
Andrew looked at me blankly. ‘How was I supposed to know that? Anyway, what he was doing wasn’t that clever.’
‘That’s not the point,’ I cried. ‘He wanted you to think he was.’ As I said that, I had a realisation. One that sent a warm stream of happiness curling through my body. Andrew was incapable of saying someone was clever when they weren’t. When Andrew had told me I was an acceptable student not a brilliant one it was because exaggerated flattery was not in his nature, not because he wasn’t interested in me sexually. Maybe he still felt something towards me in that direction.
I put my arm around Andrew and gave him a squeeze. His naivety had made him less than perfect, but also more human, and more accessible to someone like me. ‘Where are you taking me?’ I asked.
‘Well I would like to go somewhere with good vegetarian options. I looked up some places on Google and there’s a nice Turkish restaurant we can go to.’
When Andrew had been explaining the environmental effects of animal production in our class, and his own experiences as an animal activist, I was certainly influenced by his arguments, as were a number of my classmates. Andrew was very erudite in all matters except buttering up power, and he had made a very convincing case for eschewing animal products.
I must admit with some shame I had not done much to follow up on what I had learned. I had studied environmental science because I enjoyed the natural outdoor life, camping and tramping trips with my mother and older sister were the part of my childhood I looked back on with the most affection – but I did not have what it took to be an environmental zealot.
When I first dropped out of tech I made a conscious effort to lower my environmental footprint, but it all became too hard. So I went back to my old habits. Taking my battered car on the two kilometre commute to work, and eating McDonalds, Kentucky Fried, sausages, chops and other greasy fatty meat – the only sort I could afford.
‘Turkish would be fine,’ I said. My disappointment at missing out on the French restaurant was more than compensated for by the prospect of spending an evening with Andrew. Impulsively I slipped my arm around him again, then disengaged hurriedly as I saw a familiar gangling figure cycling by.
‘Hi Maxine,’ he called.
‘Hi Brian,’ I replied.
‘Friend of yours?’ asked Andrew.
I thought of Brian pounding inside me on my untidy bed, and his shout more of relief than ecstasy as he had squirted his warm liquid into the condom I insisted he wore. ‘Sort of,’ I said. Then – a natural association of ideas – ‘Where are you staying tonight, Andrew?’
‘I don’t have much money, and it’s too far to drive back to Wellington, so I thought I would check into a backpackers. You live here, Maxine, do you know of any good places?’
‘You can stay at my place,’ I said.
‘That’s nice of you. Do you have a couch or a spare bed I can sleep on?’
‘We’ll arrange something.’ The couch was unpleasant and lumpy, but that didn’t matter. Andrew was going to sleep in my bed with me. Maybe not for sex, unless I could get over my hangup. Andrew held me in high regard and I wanted it to stay that way. But it would be nice to have the comfort of snuggling up to a warm body who didn’t see me simply as a bonk-bag.
Andrew wanted to sit near the doorway in the restaurant, but I chose one of the darker alcoves at the back. Opotane is a small town, and it might mean too many embarrassing explanations if any more of my ex-boyfriends came round. Workmates were also a problem. There were a not inconsiderable number of workmates who compensated for the tedium at work with a prurient interest in their colleagues’ love life, and I didn’t want to be facing too many probing questions in the smoko room.
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