considerable weight. He always did this after farting. To try and conceal it. As if, after seven years of working for him, Mitzi didn’t know the difference between a Volkers fart and a leather swivel chair.
Sigh. You had to suffer for your art. It was true.
Mitzi pulled the red lace panty from her sweaty crack. Of course there was that too. As if working in the dreary confines of the Hope Gazette office wasn’t bad enough. There was that too. The panties had been a gift from Gerhard. Like virtually her entire lingerie collection had been. And it was a collection to be sure. In addition he kept at least another three of her panties in the various cluttered drawers of his desk. Well-worn. Had been his instructions. Make sure they’re well-worn. ‘I want at least three days of pussy ,’ the sophisticated instructions had been. He liked to pull one from his desk drawers and, shoving it against his pudgy face, inhale deeply. And then, invariably, she would be ‘summoned’ to the office, where with sweaty hands and the lingering reek of KFC on his breath, he would rip her red panties (yes, he had a thing for red panties, our Gerrie) from her tight little tush and fuck her from behind (Mitzi insisted). She sighed. The travails of an artist never ended. Well ... Okay. Maybe it wasn’t that bad, she thought, as she stroked the expensive Fossil watch on her wrist. The gifts and the month-end bonuses sure did go a long way. And it wasn’t as if Gerrie was such a bad lover either. Though, of course, his true talent lay further north. In that muscled tongue of his. Lean and mean. Strengthened with years of American-style fast foods. Oh yes. Gerrie could give head like no-one else. Not even that Coloured boy she used to see during her Matric year could bring her to climax like Mr Volkers. Okay. So maybe it wasn’t all bad, she thought, wondering if it was too early in the day for some oral exploration.
The phone rang. And changed her life forever.
Mitzi looked at the thing as if it had made a negative comment about her lacquer mix. Oh God, really? It was almost lunch time. Couldn’t this wait?
The phone rang.
‘Can someone get the blêddie phone,’ Gerrie shouted from behind his desk.
Mitzi threw him a disparaging look. And taking her liberal time, slowly picked up the receiver. ‘Hello,’ she said. It was less of a greeting and more of a reprimand. A schoolgirl reminding a friend that she had just said something ludicrous and totally uncool. Hellooooo . If Mitzi thought her trained disdain would intimidate the caller or maybe impress upon him
that a call after lunchtime would be much more appropriate, she was sadly mistaken. If anyone could have viewed Mitzi’s face at that moment, they would have been confronted with the comical sight of her gaping mouth, frozen halfway through a word. Her large bulging eyes. And a face instantaneously drained of all colour. What they wouldn’t have seen was her right leg, shaking uncontrollably.
It was a voice. Speaking with such easy menace. With such a comfortable malevolence. That with the very first word he had managed to grab Mitzi’s attention in an iron grip. And as his effortless words flowed through the speaker of the phone, she felt herself sink further and further into a dark pit of terror.
Take a pen. He said. And waited. Knowing she wouldn’t.
Mitzi stared ahead. A trembling upon her forehead. Her eyes misting.
‘Take a pen, sweetheart. Don’t make me ask again.’ And as in a dream. She had taken a pen. And not looking where she was writing. What she was writing. She captured his words. Such ugly. Terrible words. She captured his words on her writing pad. The sing-song words. She would never forget. And when he was done. She stared straight ahead. The receiver still pressed against her ear. There was only the tone of a dropped call. But she held onto the phone. Her knuckles white with the exertion of clutching the ugly thing in her fist. Gerrie shouted at
Sigh. You had to suffer for your art. It was true.
Mitzi pulled the red lace panty from her sweaty crack. Of course there was that too. As if working in the dreary confines of the Hope Gazette office wasn’t bad enough. There was that too. The panties had been a gift from Gerhard. Like virtually her entire lingerie collection had been. And it was a collection to be sure. In addition he kept at least another three of her panties in the various cluttered drawers of his desk. Well-worn. Had been his instructions. Make sure they’re well-worn. ‘I want at least three days of pussy ,’ the sophisticated instructions had been. He liked to pull one from his desk drawers and, shoving it against his pudgy face, inhale deeply. And then, invariably, she would be ‘summoned’ to the office, where with sweaty hands and the lingering reek of KFC on his breath, he would rip her red panties (yes, he had a thing for red panties, our Gerrie) from her tight little tush and fuck her from behind (Mitzi insisted). She sighed. The travails of an artist never ended. Well ... Okay. Maybe it wasn’t that bad, she thought, as she stroked the expensive Fossil watch on her wrist. The gifts and the month-end bonuses sure did go a long way. And it wasn’t as if Gerrie was such a bad lover either. Though, of course, his true talent lay further north. In that muscled tongue of his. Lean and mean. Strengthened with years of American-style fast foods. Oh yes. Gerrie could give head like no-one else. Not even that Coloured boy she used to see during her Matric year could bring her to climax like Mr Volkers. Okay. So maybe it wasn’t all bad, she thought, wondering if it was too early in the day for some oral exploration.
The phone rang. And changed her life forever.
Mitzi looked at the thing as if it had made a negative comment about her lacquer mix. Oh God, really? It was almost lunch time. Couldn’t this wait?
The phone rang.
‘Can someone get the blêddie phone,’ Gerrie shouted from behind his desk.
Mitzi threw him a disparaging look. And taking her liberal time, slowly picked up the receiver. ‘Hello,’ she said. It was less of a greeting and more of a reprimand. A schoolgirl reminding a friend that she had just said something ludicrous and totally uncool. Hellooooo . If Mitzi thought her trained disdain would intimidate the caller or maybe impress upon him
that a call after lunchtime would be much more appropriate, she was sadly mistaken. If anyone could have viewed Mitzi’s face at that moment, they would have been confronted with the comical sight of her gaping mouth, frozen halfway through a word. Her large bulging eyes. And a face instantaneously drained of all colour. What they wouldn’t have seen was her right leg, shaking uncontrollably.
It was a voice. Speaking with such easy menace. With such a comfortable malevolence. That with the very first word he had managed to grab Mitzi’s attention in an iron grip. And as his effortless words flowed through the speaker of the phone, she felt herself sink further and further into a dark pit of terror.
Take a pen. He said. And waited. Knowing she wouldn’t.
Mitzi stared ahead. A trembling upon her forehead. Her eyes misting.
‘Take a pen, sweetheart. Don’t make me ask again.’ And as in a dream. She had taken a pen. And not looking where she was writing. What she was writing. She captured his words. Such ugly. Terrible words. She captured his words on her writing pad. The sing-song words. She would never forget. And when he was done. She stared straight ahead. The receiver still pressed against her ear. There was only the tone of a dropped call. But she held onto the phone. Her knuckles white with the exertion of clutching the ugly thing in her fist. Gerrie shouted at
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