The Indecent Assault

'I think I've been assaulted,' was all she said. I glanced at Kate, my wife, who was frowning at our visitor, Sharon, from next door.

'Assaulted?' I queried, putting on my professional voice.

'Yes,' she glanced at the carpet, adding, 'sexually.'

I looked away. The only way anyone was ever likely to assault the daughter of our next door neighbour, was sexually. She was much too lovely to hit. Kate went to her, put her arms around her, and stroked her hair. 'Poor dear,' she purred, pulling the younger woman's head to her shoulder and catching my eye. She expected me to act. I was the lawyer after all – although criminal assault was hardly my bag. I was corporate law: takeovers, mergers, acquisitions; the occasional hostile take-over. But Kate didn't involve herself in the niceties of law. To her, a lawyer was a lawyer.

'How can we help?' I asked.

It was after dinner. I had a whiskey in my hand. Tie and jacket off.

'God, Archie,' my wife sighed. 'How can the poor lamb know?' Meaning that I, as the man, should know better than the girl in her arms, who was barely nineteen.

'No, Mrs Hunter,' Sharon said, pulling herself gently out of the arms of my wife. 'I know what help I want.' Kate nodded at this: Brave Girl, (unsaid). 'I would like to explain what happened to Mr Hunter.' Artic blue eyes flicked to mine. 'I need to know if it was an ... an assault. Under the law, I mean.' Her eyes held mine. They were large and soft. Especially the way they looked right now.

'Okay,' I said.

'I'll go and make some coffee,' Kate volunteered, already on her way to the kitchen. But Sharon stopped her, said it was rather embarrassing, asked if she could talk to 'Mr Hunter' alone. "Mr Hunter" (me) was the lawyer, after all ...

'Of course you can. My lamb,' said Kate. (So how could I object?)

'How about the study?' I suggested, lacking anything else constructive to suggest.

The study was upstairs, at the front, overlooking the lake.

So up we went to my "holy of holies". Closed the door. I motioned Sharon to the only comfortable seat: a two-seater Chesterfield by the book-cases lined against one wall. It faced the fire-place in which a low fire continued to burn from this evening's earlier endeavours.

Our teenage neighbour sat in the small two-seater. She wore a business suit, the skirt cut fashionably short, the heels of her shoes unfashionably high, I thought – but at forty what do I know about fashion for the younger set? She made an effort to pull the hem of her skirt closer to her knees, but failed as there was insufficient skirt. I looked at the fire, put on another log, gave it a cursory prod with the poker, turned and looked at my guest.

Very pretty.

Gorgeous, in fact.

Fluffy golden hair. Long shapely legs – on display for most of their length. The jacket of her suit was intriguingly filled and, since the room was warm, she took it off, leaving her dressed in a light white blouse ... equally intriguingly filled, I noted, as I put away the poker. Was she wearing a bra? (There had been movement – unfettered, as it were.)

'So,' I said, not sure if I should go to the Chesterfield and sit down beside her, or stay where I was with my elbow draped atop the mantelpiece.

'Should I start at the beginning?' she asked, moving in her corner of the Chesterfield. She wore no bra. The clear indent of a nipple through the silk of her blouse and the shift of the bulk that was behind it showed she wore no bra.

'Of course,' I said, wondering what to do with my hands. 'Start at the beginning. Tell it however you want,' I said, trying to relax – her and me both!

'Mum and Dad have a lot on their plate, as you know,' she started, shooting me a self-conscious smile, then ducking her head. I found myself glancing at her legs. The top of her stockings to be precise: where they ended, two thirds of the way up well-rounded thighs in a band of self-supporting nylon. The top of the band was an inch below the hem of her skirt. Dark flowers in the band and then a creamy inch of skin. The hem of her skirt, very short, very tight. 'We could do with the extra money a job would bring,' she was saying, telling me what this was about. A job. I turned away, concerned at my studying her so closely. Especially her legs.

'I noted a job, in The Courier,' she went on, voice low, voice soft. 'It seemed ideal: country PA to the CEO of an Overseas Company based in Sydney, Australia.' I wondered what that meant. Not the 'Sydney, Australia' part – I knew where Australia was – the 'country PA' part. But I needn't have, for she went on to tell me. 'At the first interview it was explained that the CEO came to this country on nine or ten occasions each year. During the time he was here the PA was to accompany him on any trips he made within the country. For the rest of the time the PA was free to do whatever he, of she, wanted.'

'The job was open to male or female?' I asked, wanting to nail down this point – and feeling I should say something.

'Yes,' she nodded.

Sharon's hair is one of her strong points. Kate, my wife, drools over it. So full and shiny and fluffy and soft. A perfect compliment 'to her lovely oval face', as Kate has said more than once. Personally, I tend to think of Sharon's face more as 'innocent', with a shade of unmissable voluptuousness – probably on account of her lips, which are like Brigitte Bardot's used to be – than 'lovely', (but that's just a matter of opinion).

'Go on,' I prompted from my position by the fire.

'I made the short-list,' she went on. 'I attended a third interview at the beginning of this week. A representative of the firm was present.'

'From Dallas?' I asked.

'Yes,' she replied.

I waited.

'It paid very well,' she said.

'Good,' I responded.

'No,' she had started to blush. 'Very ... very well.' She wouldn't look at me. I decided to say nothing. 'One hundred thousand US dollars a year,' she said in a whisper.

Jesus! I thought as I studied her more closely – I felt I could, as her head was bowed – as I wondered what on earth it might be about a relatively inexperienced nineteen year old, with legs as long as hers ... and breasts as plump, and lips as inviting, and eyes as large ... but who wasn't (in truth) the brightest of girls, (though her grades at school weren't bad,) that would encourage anyone from Sydney, Australia, to want to pay her a hundred thousand dollars a year, just to be on hand for some trips to this country.

I could only see one thing, really.

Her looks.

(And body.)

I turned and stoked the fire some more. 'If you'd rather leave it there,' I said to the fire. She was blushing hugely, and clearly embarrassed as all heck.

'No. I have to know.' She pulled herself together.

'Whether you were assaulted?' I said. Again, to the fire.

'Yes,' she said, clearly resolved to continue.

'Okay.' I turned.

'I think I did well in the interview because the guy who was doing it, Zitsky's his name, seemed to like me. He asked a lot of questions which put me in good light. He said he'd be having a final selection this coming week-end, and that he would make up his mind on who he would recommend to the CEO before the end of the following week.'

'Two weeks away?' I asked, getting it straight in my head.

'That was the plan.' She looked directly at me for the first time since she had sat down. Her eyes could sink a battleship! I dropped my eyes, from hers. She dropped hers too, to her lap. There were parts of Sharon that were innocent teenage fun. But then again there were other parts that weren't – not teenage, anyway. My eyes were back at the hem of her skirt. Again. It had ridden up. Some more.

'He phoned me this afternoon. Told me he was urgently needed back in Australia. Could I make a final interview today? I needed to shower, prepare, get ready, get into the city. There wasn't much time!' She took a deep breath. It forced her breasts against her blouse with a soft firm pressure that spread the silk flat, and left two nipples standing proud. Were they hard? They looked hard. On she went, 'I realised, of course, that sudden changes of plan would happen in a large corporation. Then I thought perhaps it was a test, to see how committed I was. Then I thought, in a panic of seeking a reason for this sudden change, that it was designed to see how I handled pressure ...'

She shook her hair. It shimmered. Moving again in her corner of the sofa she crossed her legs, sat forward – baring an even larger expanse of creamy thigh. Her eyes beseechingly on mine. Mine were on her thighs, but she didn't seem to notice.

'I said, Of course,' she said, seeking my approval. 'I had to, you see. In case it was a test.'

I nodded, I could see that.

'To which he replied, "My hotel. Eight o'clock. I'm in room thirteen-ten. Make your way up. Reception knows you're coming. Okay?"

I looked at her. She looked at me.

'Of course, I had to say yes,' she said. 'Did I do right?' she asked.

I shrugged. How the hell should I know. I'm a lawyer, not a clairvoyant!

'Anyway I did,' she rabbitted on, her huge eyes on mine. She swallowed and then in a rush, went on some more, 'So I showered, and changed, and dressed, and got a taxi to the station, train into the city, taxi again ...'

I nodded. Okay. I get that part.

'He was dressed in his shirt, but his tie was off. Like you.' she glanced at my shirt, then back at my eyes. Her eyes were enormous. I'd never appreciated before just how huge they were. You could drown in eyes that big. That blue.

'He asked me in. I was dressed,' she glanced at her lap, saw how high her hem had ridden, 'I was dressed like this.' She seemed to think about getting her hem back down, nearer to her knees.

'Go on,' I said.

She left the hem where it was. Looked back at me. 'There was a large bed in the room, a desk with a chair, two easy chairs by the window. He told me to take the chair by the desk. A lap-top was open, switched on, on the desk. I sat in the chair before it. He sat on the bed, leaned back, and started to tell me how delighted he was with my performance at interview; that there was now a shortlist of two; that the other had just finished; that I was last, in other words. Before I could stop myself I had blurted out, "How did the other one do?" I don't know why I did.'

She was sitting forward in the Chesterfield. Looking intense. The hem of her skirt had reached her thighs. The creamy white of her skin atop her stockings was on startling display.

I nodded. Or perhaps I shook my head. Can't remember which. (Could have been either.)

'It was a silly thing to ask, I know,' she said, shaking her golden hair and screwing her big eyes shut. 'Really silly.'

'How did he answer?' I asked, wanting her to go on. Wanting to know what happened next.

'He said she'd done well.' She nodded at that. She opened her big soft eyes and pointed them at me. Leaned back again. Her legs were absolutely stunning. 'He started to outline the job. I asked a lot of questions. His answers were forthright. About the CEO, about where he went, what hotels we would stay in. Would I have my own room? Of course. Any time off when with him? Sometimes. Would be expected to work all hours, of course ... etc. The whole thing came down in the end, he said, to unwavering loyalty to the CEO.'

'Unwavering loyalty?' I repeated the expression.

She took it as a question. 'He inferred that I must do whatever I could to support him.'

'Anything?' I asked.

'That's how I interpreted it,' she replied, her eyes on mine. Sensing concern in my eyes, perhaps, she added, 'After all, for such a handsome salary, isn't he entitled to ... something special?' (My eyes were on a part of that "something special" now, I hastily moved them off.) 'I am an adult,' she stated, flatly, firmly, as I reached for another log and put it on the fire.

'You are,' I said, agreeing.

She was!

Just about as adult as any female was ever likely to get.

'Shall I go on?' she asked, sounding suddenly unsure.

'Please do,' I replied, as kindly as I could.

'There was a test he needed to put me through, he said,' she said, going on.

I straightened, back to the fire, elbow on the mantelpiece. Listening.

'The other girl had done it very well, he said, and then explained the scenario: The CEO had to take a call in another room. I was left alone with a prospective investor, called Takada. The CEO and Takada had been going over some project details after dinner.'

'In Takada's hotel room?' I queried, wondering if they would do such a thing in real life, and guessing they might.

'Zitsky said business was carried out everywhere: golf course, over dinner, by the pool, in the toilet ...' her voice trailed off, but I figured, if you can discus business in the toilet, why not a hotel bedroom? 'Anyway,' she went on, eyes on the fire. 'In the scenario he painted, the CEO, on leaving the room, whispers to me, his PA, who is to remain to act as host – or hostess, in my case – "Keep him sweet. We need this deal." Then he's gone. I close the door. Go back into the room. Takada is there.'

'Zitsky is now Takada?' I guessed, getting it straight in my mind.

'That's right,' said Sharon, her eyes on my shoes by the fire.

'Do you mind if I have a seat,' I said, moving away from the fire.

(I was getting roasted!)

She shifted an inch on the Chesterfield – leaving a few for me. It wasn't that large. I sat down. I don't think I'd ever had two sitting in the Chesterfield before. No-one usually comes in here, but me. We were very close. I stretched an arm along the back of the Chesterfield, to make more room. I angled myself towards Sharon, but our knees touched. So I angled back. She didn't move. 'Go on,' I said. Lovely profile: nose little nicely turned up at the end. Thick lips held in a sexy 'kiss-me' pout. Big eyes glistening in the firelight.

'Zitsky then spoke to me in a totally different voice. It surprised me, because I didn't understand what he was saying. It must have been Japanese he was speaking. But he didn't explain. Just went on speaking Japanese. But I assumed that he –as Takada – would understand some English, so I said, as politely as I could, and after giving him a small bow – as I've seen women do in Japanese movies, "Mr Takada. You must excuse me but I don't speak your language." He stopped talking Japanese, smiled at that, angling his head as if letting me go on. So I did. "While we are waiting for my boss to return, is there anything I can get you?" Again he tilted his head to one side, as if to say, Go on.'

'You felt you were being tested?' I suggested, trying to be helpful.

'Yes,' she replied, but didn't look at me. She continued to stare at the fire. 'I repeated my question to Zitsky – Tanaka, "While my boss is away, is there anything I can do for you?" He was standing by the dressing table, a large mirror behind him. I was at the door. "Hai!" he said, which I know is Japanese for Yes. I relaxed. I was performing correctly. I think I smiled. He – Zitsky/Tanaka – lifted his finger and beckoned me to come to him. I did. When I was a pace from him, I stopped. He angled his head ... My move. "How can I help?" I asked, possibly frowning. He curled his finger once more: Come closer. I was already close. I took another step. We were now touching. He closed his eyes, pantomiming a Japanese closing his eyes, and pursed his lips expectantly. His meaning was clear. He, Takada, wanted a kiss.'

'How old is Zitsky?' I asked.

Sharon turned and looked at me. Our heads were close. Her eyes were soft and full. 'About your age,' she answered.

I nodded, 'Go on.'

(Just checking.)

She looked back at the fire. "I leant forward and kissed him on the lips. But his lips didn't move. He didn't move. Didn't reach out, didn't put his arms around me, didn't do anything. Just stood there like a statue as I moved my lips over his.' Sharon looked long and deeply at the fire. She leaned forward, elbows on fire-lit knees, the front of her blouse straining to contain all that was within. I ran my eyes all over her, waiting for her to go on. (And her eyes were on the fire, after all.)

On she went, hesitantly, 'When I lent back from him I didn't know what to expect. I thought I had done what he wanted, yet he hadn't moved. His eyes, I saw, were closed. His mouth still pursed for a kiss. I was confused ...' The look on her brow was confusion in the fire-light. 'I figured that as he hadn't moved, and as the invitation to kiss was still as explicit as before, that I had better try again – and perhaps do rather better this time round. I put my mouth back on his. But as it was obvious that my earlier effort fell short of what was expected – it hadn't got me anywhere, after all – this time I decided I had better make a good job of it.' Her profile was rapt concentration.

'So what did you do,' I asked her.

'I tried to kiss him better this time,' she replied. And then explained, 'I moved my hands to his face, held it either side, angled my mouth against his, and opened my lips. I tried to make it enjoyable for him. Slowly he allowed me to encourage his lips apart ... which is when I tried to get my tongue in his mouth.' She stopped. I waited. She was breathing through her nose as if finding this difficult, or the room too hot.

"Is it too hot?" I almost asked, but asked instead: 'Did you succeed?'

'Succeed?' she asked.

'In getting your tongue in his mouth?' I said.

'Yes,' she replied. Then nothing.

'So you got your tongue in his mouth. What did he do?'

'He let it in,' she said. 'He let it wander all over his mouth.' She frowned. 'I think I was surprised how pleasant it tasted. Some spice ... He let me do most of the work. All of the work, in fact. Until I was practically panting for breath. I was finding it difficult to breath with my mouth closed hard on his, and my nose against his cheeks, pressing and working hard. Then he started kissing back. His arms went around me, pulling me against him. It was almost relief. A relief that I'd succeeded, at last! A relief that now I didn't have to do all the work. So we relaxed into a bout of French kissing. Very heavy French kissing. I wrapped my arms around his neck and relaxed. His legs were spread, buttock against the dressing table, one of his legs between mine. I edged my own around it and – as I say – relaxed.' She stopped.

'How long did it last,' I asked, picturing this lovely girl wrapped around a complete stranger the same age as me, her legs around his, between hers, her tongue in his mouth, and his in hers, their bodies pressed close in each other's arms ... relaxing!

'Three, four ... five minutes? ... I don't know,' she said. And then, as if the effort of recall had exhausted her, she leant back into her corner of the sofa. The warmth of her neck through her hair fell against my arm on the back of the Chesterfield. I was too slow to move it, so left it there.

'Go on,' I said.

'He kissed very well,' she whispered, staring at the ceiling. Her breasts were fat and full and strained at the front of her blouse, threatening to pop the buttons. Her hem was high on her thigh but looking at the ceiling as she was, she didn't seem to notice. I waited for her to go on, visually grazing as I waited. (She possessed a quite mesmerising form.)

'After we had both had enough, he let me go,' she went on, talking to the ceiling. 'I was breathing hard,' she said (while starting – I swear – to do so herself!) 'He slipped away from me. I reached out for the dressing table to support myself. I rested like that, eyes closed. I was suddenly hot and flushed.' She stared at the ceiling some more. 'Nothing happened for a minute or so. I may have heard him move but was so busy catching my breath and regaining my composure that I didn't register a lot.'