The Goodwin Hotel

The Goodwin is unlike the cookie-cutter hotels that have spread to every airport and financial center in the world, I don't mind staying at the Marriotts and Hiltons of the world, but the Goodwin has catered to a different kind of clientele for over a century. It took a favor from the rich father of a former student I called yesterday to even allow me to make the reservation in the first place, and close to five-hundred dollars to get the suite I wanted. I haven't spent this much money at once since I bought my boat, but the Alpha male in the Harlequin is a billionaire and this is the perfect of hotel for Alison's fantasy.

My young tenant returns from her classes in the afternoon and is clearly excited about the surprise I promised, but I send her up to her room to shower and change with only the barest hint of what to expect.

“We're driving to a fancy restaurant in Hartford, so look presentable.”

“You want me to wear the outfit you got me? Right Mr. P?” Her soft brown eyes search my face for confirmation that what I have in mind is on the same vein as what she is thinking.

“It's up to you, Angel,” I tell her, “but if you choose to wear the outfit, I expect the whole package. I want the innocent young secretary who knows she is in big trouble with her boss.”

“Yes Sir.” She whispers softly easily falling into character, “You won't regret giving a second chance, I promise.” I can feel my cock start to swell uncomfortably in my pants and I belatedly hope that my suit still fits comfortably. The dark charcoal-grey suit has been worn just once at Fran's funeral, and I try not to think too much about the juxtaposition of the funeral and what I am planning for tonight.

At roughly six o'clock Alison comes downstairs wearing the white blouse, pencil skirt and stockings I decide that this splurge is going to be worth every penny. She looks even sexier than I imagined, with her hair up in a tidy bun, stylish high heels, a black silk ribbon in a bow around her throat and wearing glasses that I didn't even know she owned. If Alison notices me undressing her with my eyes, she ignores my hungry gaze.

“I'm ready, Mr. Patterson.” She smiles timidly, patting a large rectangular leather bag, “I brought my laptop in case you need me to take notes.”

“Very good Miss Miller.” I try to keep my voice calm, “I'm going to have to assess all of your skills before I decide on what to do with you.” I don't know if she is acting, but my beautiful tenant looks decidedly nervous when she hears me announce my intention to evaluate her skill package. She allows me to take her arm and steer her possessively to the passenger seat of my sedan. “First, we'll have dinner, and then we'll discus your inexperience, spotty performance and falsified resume.”

“Yes, Sir.” Alison gulps quietly, “I know I can do this job, if you just give me a chance to prove myself.” Instead of breaking the mood, I decide to continue to play the role of the controlling billionaire boss and I escort her to the car with a firm grip on her arm. To a casual observer it might seem old-fashioned and even gentlemanly, but it also communicated clearly to my 'secretary' that I was in complete control.

“You know what I expect more than anything else from my employees?” I ask as we head North on route 9 and my 'secretary' shakes her head silently. “I demand obedience, if I ask you to do something, even something unusual like accompanying me to dinner, I expect you to do it to the best of your ability and with a smile on your face.” I have to admit, I am enjoying playing the role of the powerful alpha male.

“Yes Sir.” Judging by her fidgeting, I sense that this poor thing has reservations about absolute obedience to anyone other than her Lord and Savior, but along with the nervousness is a growing excitement.

Twenty minutes later as I leave our coats and Alison's computer at the coat-check, I pull Alison aside and press a tube of lipstick into her hand. “I like this shade better,” I tell her, “Go freshen up while I see about our table.”

When my secretary returns I am pleased to see that her lips are now a vibrant red, and that Alison is clearly aware of how much attention the lipstick draws to her mouth. It is not a shade that she would ever buy for herself, but it is the first of several different tasks that are designed to demonstrate that I am in complete control. When the waiter arrives I order for both of us: bruschetta for an appetizer, a steak and baked potato and salad for myself along with a glass of Bordeaux and mushroom raviolis in cream sauce for her paired with a ginger ale garnished with a single cherry. The white-gloved waiter is expressionless but I can only imagine what he is thinking about a man my age with a wedding ring on my finger having dinner with his much younger, very pretty and clearly nervous secretary.

“Good.” I tell Alison as the waiter leaves to get our drinks, “Now, return to the Ladies room and bring me your panties.”

“Mr. P?!” I love the expression of surprise and alarm, but I keep my expression neutral although I let a little sharpness into my tone.

“Miss Miller, you will call me Mr. Patterson or Sir,” I inform her coolly, “and you are defying me for the last time.”