Mr. McIntyre's Secret - Jack Stratton - ebook

It's the 1960s. Abigail, a mousy secretary, is in love with her boss. He's brilliant, handsome, charming, and powerful. Once she steps into his world though, she finds nothing is as she expected. Mr. McIntyre is full of secrets. Will Abigail become another one of them?

Ebooka przeczytasz w aplikacjach Legimi na:

czytnikach certyfikowanych
przez Legimi

Liczba stron: 232

Odsłuch ebooka (TTS) dostepny w abonamencie „ebooki+audiobooki bez limitu” w aplikacjach Legimi na:



Chapter 1 - Morning Routine

Chapter 2 - Missed Appointments

Chapter 3 - Diary Entry

Chapter 4 - The First Assignment

Chapter 5 - A Visit from Marcy

Chapter 6 - Assignment Completed

Chapter 7 - Dress-up

Chapter 8 - Dressage

Chapter 9 - Minutes

Chapter 10 - Failure

Chapter 11 - Jazz

Chapter 12 - Tea

Chapter 13 - Back to the Mansion

Chapter 14 - Marcy’s Turn

Chapter 15 - Comfort

Epilogue - The Birthday Party

Bonus Short - A Day in the Life of Ms. Marcy Peterson

Like a hundred mornings before, I sat at my desk and waited for him.

The clock ticked in slow motion and I crossed and uncrossed my legs to try and stop them from their never-ending nervous bouncing. I worked in vain to relax as I went through my morning ritual.

Every morning it was the same. I don't know why I got so nervous. I always got to the office a half an hour early, sorted the mail, straightened up Mr. McIntyre’s desk and mine, checked my typewriter ribbon. By the time it was 8:45 I would start to shake a little. I had to concentrate on not biting my lower lip, or I'd mess up my lipstick.

I kept a little laminated checklist under my typewriter that I could slide it out and look at it as the day went along.

Make sure his drinking glasses are clean. Make sure his desk is organized. Empty the two garbage cans. Check the bulbs in his lamps. Dust his globe and bookshelf. Get the special coffee he likes from the shop downstairs and keep it in a thermos. If he isn’t in by ten, get some more so it will be hot and fresh for him. I had to guard the milk I kept in the refrigerator. Mr. McIntyre doesn't like cream. The Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times on his desk. He read the New York Times on the train.

By 8:55 my heart was racing. I had to dab my forehead. My legs would bounce so much I was sure I was going to wear a hole in my stockings.

The offices of The Fitzgerald Group were laid out like many other companies.

Exiting the seventh-floor elevator, you find yourself in reception. A large beautiful space with tasteful but inoffensive modern art. Then you enter a lobby with some couches and tables for waiting. From there you come into a long, vast room with doors on either side and secretaries at desks in front of each of these doors.

Behind each door sits an executive or a partner. The two doors at the end of the long room lead to the offices of the CEO and the top Executive Vice President.

Mr. McIntyre's office is just before those doors on the right.

In the center of the large room are a few rows of smaller desks, where account reps and other non-executives sit.

Everyone else in the company is down on the sixth floor.

When Mr. McIntyre came in, he would charge through the lobby. I could hear him stomping from the elevator coming right at me like a bull. No one else in the office walked that fast. My body would tighten as he walked towards me. I never knew where to look. I straighten papers. I fixed my pencils. I knew if I looked up at those blue eyes I’d explode, or even worse blush.

"Abby,” he greeted me in his deep voice.

I look up high enough to see his chin. I marveled at the lines of his lips and the smoothness of his shave.

"Good morning, Mr. McIntyre,” I hated my voice. I sounded like a little girl.

He was wearing his charcoal gray suit with a light blue shirt and a navy and white striped tie.

“You have an eleven o'clock meeting with Mr. Richardson. Lunch at one with the Morgan Stanley people. Nothing else until the four o'clock review with Mr. Donaldson, sir."

He looked through his mail as I reeled off his itinerary from memory. He threw away half the mail and opened one letter right there at my desk. I could smell his aftershave and lingering cigarette smoke. He had a little red nick on his chin from shaving. I wanted to lick it.

Why was I like that? Why was getting wet just from him standing over me? I had been working in the office for six months, and I was still acting like an idiot whenever he was around. It was actually getting worse. Did other girls think about their boss like that? I was twenty-two, and he was thirty-five. He was married to the most beautiful women I've ever seen. Plus, well, Mr. McIntyre had secrets. I would never tell. I could always keep secrets. It was important that Mr. McIntyre knew that. I was his secretary, and I would never divulge any of his private affairs to anyone, except my diary.

As he finished with his mail, he hovered closer, taking a step nearer and looking around.

"Abby," he said slowly, clearing his throat.

He was using his conspiratorial whisper.

"See if you can move the Morgan thing to two and the Richardson thing to 10. Matt Richardson is staying at the Roosevelt, tell him I can swing by, and we can do it in the restaurant there."

Then he leaned in even closer, his mouth inches from my ear. I tried to breathe, but I couldn’t. Just kiss me. Kiss my neck. I'll do anything you want Mr. McIntyre. Please, sir. Please.

"Call up the Pierre. Get me that room I get. You know the one. Tell them it is for Mr. Chambers, they will know what you mean. I'll be there from 11:30 to 1."

"Yes, sir."

Then he was gone. Into his office with the door closed.

I only saw her once; the girl he takes to the Pierre. He always paid cash at the desk for the room. She was my age, dark hair, light eyes, fancy clothes. She had a stupid face. She looked mean, bitter and bratty. Maybe that's what he liked. I wonder what they did in there. I mean, I knew what they did, I just wondered how exactly it went. Did he get there first or did she? Did he just pull up her dress and get to it? Was he rough or gentle?

My legs closed tightly under my desk. My fists clenched. I had to stop thinking about that room. I had to stop thinking about Mr. McIntyre.

He was rough. I just knew Mr. McIntyre was rough. I bet he pushed her down on the bed or maybe against the wall. I bet he slapped her around if her bratty mouth went off. I bet he ripped her panties off, if she wore any, that little slut.

Was it big? Oh god. I had to stop thinking about it. Was it thick and hard? Did she suck it? Did it hurt her when he-

"Abby? Is there a problem with the coffee?" he said through the intercom.

"One moment, sir."

I was out of my seat like a shot. I was dizzy as I rand down the hall and got the milk from the break room. I found a mug for him. I got the thermos. Just a splash of milk. My eyes stung. I was so stupid. I was daydreaming, and I forgot.

I fanned my eyes. Stop it. Don't cry. Put on a happy face and bring it to him.

I composed myself. I took a deep breath. I opened the door. I brought in the coffee. He was writing notes on a yellow pad. He didn’t look up at me, he just picked up the cup I put down and sipped.

I was so stupid. I stupid girl with ridiculous fantasies.

I backed away from his desk and scolded myself for having the weird impulse to curtsey.

I went back to my desk, and I made the calls. I had to fight with the various clients to change the times, but it all worked out.

The little intercom crackled as I pushed the button and announced, “sir? Your schedule is all set for the day. Just the way you wanted it."

Silence. My heart raced again. The intercom static was breaking my heart.

"Thank you, Abby,” said his firm baritone.

“Oh, and great coffee as always,” he added.

I tried not to smile, but I felt myself blushing again.

Oh, Mr. McIntyre.

I took a deep breath and looked up at the clock again.

It was a quarter to noon, which meant Mr. McIntyre was- the thought made me pause. He was in his “meeting.” He was in his hotel room at that very moment. He was doing things, things that made me bite my lip just thinking about them. How was I supposed to work? How was I supposed to act like nothing was going on? At that very moment at the Pierre Hotel, he was fucking her.

I wondered if they were already naked. Did he take his socks off? Did he make noise?

"Want to go to lunch with us Abigail?" a high pitched voice said, pulling me out of my daydreams.

It was Paula and Regina, secretaries of two of the other partners. Nice girls, but I was far too nervous that someone would call, that something might happen. I had to guard the secrets.

"Oh, no thanks, I brought my lunch,” I lied.

They shrugged and giggled to each other. Whispering some little joke. Who cared what they thought. Paula had a nose like a pig, and her boss was that drunk Mr. Grifford. Regina was sweet enough, but she wasn't very bright.

A moment after thinking those things the guilt swirled inside of my belly. They were nice girls, and they were trying to be friendly. I was the weird one, pining for her boss.

The phone rang, and I took a deep breath before I picked it up.

"The Fitzgerald Group, Jacob McIntyre's office."

Silence on the line. A long feminine sigh, then more silence.

"Mr. McIntyre's office, may I help you?" I said, a little louder.

"You're the secretary, right?" said a slow feminine and somewhat snooty voice.

I knew it was her. I had never heard her voice, but I knew it was the girl at the hotel. My heart started racing again. One of his secrets had come to life with a real voice, talking to me.

“Y-yes. This is Abigail. How can I help you?"

There was a low chuckle.

"He's not in, is he?" her voice was velvet. It made me jealous.

“N-no. May I ask who's calling?"

There was a long pause.

"You know who's calling. Something has come up, and I'm not going to be able to make my appointment, and I don't have the hotel's number handy."

Her name was Marcy Peterson, and she was the twenty-something daughter of a client. She was a spoiled brat.

"I'll um, I'll find Mr. McIntyre and let him know-Ms. Peterson,” my voice lowering to a whisper.

There was another haughty chuckle.

"My, but you are the good secretary,” her honey sarcastic tone purred with the trappings of a rich Connecticut accent.

"I suppose you schedule all of Mr. McIntyre's affairs."

I tried to stifle it, but I just sort of let out a little meep. What could you say to that? Secrets are supposed to be secret. Notes in the calendar. Instructions from Mr. McIntyre. They aren't supposed to call.

“I-I’ll let him know, Ma'am."

"How old are you, Abby isn't it?"

I should have just hung up. Would that have been rude? People walked by my desk, and I wondered what they thought. I was holding on to the phone with both hands. I tried to calm down. I put one hand on the desk. Tried to act like this was just another phone call.

"Twenty-two, ma'am."

“Interesting,” she said, and the word was stretched long and full of intents I couldn’t figure out.

“From your voice, I would have said twenty at most. Is it embarrassing knowing where your boss goes at lunch? He told me once you were very trustworthy and obedient to the last. It made you sound like a puppy."

My mouth opened, but no words came out. He talked to her about me? What exactly did he say? He actually sat there with his mistress and said, "That Abigail is an obedient secretary?”

"I try my best,” I squeaked.

There was another low chuckle and then she hung up. I numbly dialed the hotel.

"Mr. Chambers, room 732, please."

It rang several times. My heart couldn’t take the wait. It seemed like my heart would never slow down.

"Yes?" his slow deep voice.

"Um, it's um- your 11:30 appointment had to cancel, sir."

"She called the office?" he sounded concerned.

"Yes, sir."

"That’s-" he trailed off, "I'll be back in the office in 15 minutes."

The moment he disconnected I rushed into his office, straighten things up. I made sure everything was set for his next meeting. I made sure he had his notes were in order and that there was ice in his ice bucket.

Standing in his office with the door closed the tension of the morning finally got to me. He would be back any minute. I saw myself in his mirror, my cheeks were bright red, and my forehead was damp. Without really knowing why I found myself pulling up my skirt and reaching down my panties. I was soaked through and through. How do I let myself get this worked up?

With one hand on his desk and one hand in the tight constraints of my panties, I found that little point that needed to be touched. Fast fast. He might come back at any minute. I moved fast, waiting for his footsteps in the hallway. I pictured those gray-blue eyes, that chiseled chin, those huge hands. I bet his hands were twice the size of mine. His fingers were twice as thick. I thought of his thick fingers, and I pushed two of mine into myself.

I bet his cock was thick too. So thick it would hurt. I would take it though. I’d take anything from him.

Rubbing and rubbing, but I was quiet as a mouse, just like I would be quiet if he needed me to come into his office. I wouldn't say a word if he bent me over his desk. I'd be his. His anything. I'd never cancel.

My fist pounded once on his hardwood desk as I came and came.

Breath Abigail, breath.

I went to the bathroom. I didn’t look up at anyone. I washed my hands and fixed my lipstick.

I got back to my desk just as he got in.

"Abby, I'm going to need some lunch. Turkey club,” he stopped, examining me as he got to his door.

"You look a little flushed, is everything alright?"

I squirmed under his gaze. He looked me over with his brilliant eyes. I wondered what exactly he saw.

"Oh, I'm fine, sir,” I laugh awkwardly.

“Two turkey clubs. You look like you need some lunch too,” he said with a smile.

It was the best sandwich I’d ever eaten in my entire life.

The next morning I awoke early, tossed from sleep by a dream. On the train into work, I wrote it out in my diary.

April 19th

In the dream, there is a large, lavish hotel room. Rich crimson and gold wallpaper, a huge bed, gilded chairs and opulent mirrors. Mr. McIntyre is standing in front of the full-length mirror straightening his tie. He is in his black suit, the one he wears to big meetings. His shirt is harsh white, and he is wearing his cornflower blue tie. He is freshly shaven. His hair is parted neatly and slick. You could count the comb lines.

Marcy Peterson, his mistress, is walking out of the washroom in a slinky low cut black dress. Her dark hair is long and silky soft falling over her shoulders.

He towers over her. He stands almost six foot five and she, like me, is just over five feet tall. He leans in, and they kiss, at first tenderly, and then his hand is in her hair, pulling her back so he can kiss her neck hungrily. Her eyes are glazed with pleasure.

He picks her up and carries her to the bed. Standing over her he takes off his jacket and folds it neatly on the nightstand. He then methodically rolls up his sleeves exposing his muscular hairy arms. He loosens and removes his tie, she sits up on the bed eagerly wanting more of his lips, but he pushes her down.

Leaning over to an intercom on the bedside table, he presses a button, and I answer.

"Yes, sir?"

"Abigail I'm going to need some rope."

"Yes, sir. Right away."

There I am at the door, dressed in my mousy brown skirt and my beige top with my hair in a ponytail and my glasses falling off my nose. Two thick coils of rope in my hands.

That’s as far as I got before my stop came. Then it was back into the building and back into the nervous routine of the morning, readying the office for Mr. McIntyre.

I had been writing in diaries since my fourteenth birthday, when my grandmother had gotten me my first little journal and since then I’d filled sixteen of the books. I kept them all locked in a safe box under my bed, even though I couldn’t imagine anyone would ever look for them.

I tried to finish my description of the dream at lunch, but the images had already started fading. As I looked at the words, I’d already written as Mr. McIntyre walked back into the office. He called me in to take a letter. I left my sandwich at my desk and slipped my diary back into my drawer.

Taking dictation was one of my favorite parts of my job. Specifically, the way Mr. McIntyre would look out the window or put his feet up on his desk and his voice would become almost musical as he reeled off practiced turns of phrase and big words that made me flushed.

When we were finished, he sat back in his chair and made a little steeple with his fingers the way he did, and he rocked there and looked at me.

"I'd prefer if my non-business acquaintances didn't call the office. I apologize for putting you in that position,” he said kindly.

I swallowed hard. My stupid heart was revving up again. I wished he didn't look at me like that. That examining look that made it so I couldn’t move, but I couldn’t stay still either. I was a deer in headlights, and he had no intention of slowing down.

“You handled it well, though I'd prefer if you didn't use that individual’s name on the phone. You never who is walking by."

"I'm so sorry, sir. It will never happen again." I wanted to crawl away. I wanted to cry. I wanted to get on my knees - or over his knees.

He cleared his throat.

"You did fine. I'm just explaining the protocol for the future. You always exceed my expectations, Abby,” and with that, he swiveled his chair around and looked out his window again, the sign that I was dismissed.

I turned, scampered out, but just before I closed the door, his voice pulled me back.

“Oh, Abby, what was that you were writing?"

Fear, icy and numbing my fingers on the doorknob.


"You were writing something in a little book as I came in, what was it?"

I had to lie. I had to make something up, anything, but I knew I couldn't. I couldn’t lie to Mr. McIntyre. I wouldn't. He'd probably see through it anyhow.

"Nothing, sir. Just my diary. I-um-write in-" he cut off my mumbling.

"Speak up, Abby."

"My diary, sir. I write in it at lunch sometimes."

He considered this.

"What were you writing today?"

The panic was in my throat, and I couldn't speak. I felt like I was alone in an alley with a gang of thieves. Nowhere to run.

"Just, um, a stupid thing. A dream. It was nothing-"

He cut me off again, not turning to look at me, but I could see a smile bloom on his face.

"Dreams can be fascinating, Abby. Haven't you read anything about the work of Jung?"

I didn't know what to say. I just begged that this was the end of the conversation.

He looked at me carefully, and for some reason, there seemed to be a change in his eyes, as if he were seeing me for the first time.

"Abby, I’m going to ask you to do something that isn’t work-related. Do you understand?”


“Something that doesn’t have anything to do with your job. I’m asking you in a completely non-professional capacity. Do you understand?”

I swallowed. My heart felt like it would explode. I gathered my strength and looked up at him. It was like staring into the sun.

“Mr. McIntyre you can ask me to do absolutely anything,” I said slowly and with as much confidence as I could muster.

He smiled and nodded his head.

“That good to know. Anyhow, your diary, I want you to leave it on my desk. I want to see what kind of dreams you’ve been having."


He didn't say anything. There was silence. There was more silence. He looked me right in the eye. I almost never look him in the eyes and the power of that icy blue made me let go of the doorknob.

“I’d like you to bring your diary into my office and leave it on my desk,” he said, standing up and picking up his hat.

“That isn’t a formal request, Abby. I’m not asking as your boss. I’m just curious, and so I’m asking if you’ll bring me your diary. I’ll read it when I get back from my meeting.”

He stood suddenly, looking at the clock.

“Which reminds me, I should get going. I have drinks with the Carter brothers at the Yale club,” he said walked towards me, his body suddenly close.

He slipped past me, his chest brushing against me, I was overwhelmed by the smell of his cologne, the hugeness of him. Then he was gone. My legs were shaking so much I almost couldn't sit down. The blood was draining from my body. I was starting to hyperventilate.

I wanted to go home, but I knew I wouldn't. I couldn't. There was only one thing to do, it wasn't even a choice. I would put my little pink and purple striped diary on his desk. I would put it there, and it would sit there on his big dark wood desk next to his fancy pens and his big black telephone and all of his newspapers and business things. My heart and my dirty thoughts just waiting to be exposed to him.

Back at my desk I picked up my little diary and held it to my chest. I marched into his office feeling naked. I laid the little book down, and my eyes stung. I walked out and closed the door and sat back at my desk.

And then I waited.

There was a line, and it had been crossed.

I wasn't stupid. I knew how I looked. I was his puppy dog, his whipping post, his girl Friday. I swooned around him and jumped at his every command. For all my dedication and obedience, all I got a pat on the head, not even on the butt. I was sexless on his eyes, but at the same time, he took advantage of my attraction to him. I was alright with that, in fact, it made me work harder. I wasn't doing it to win his heart or get a kiss. I served Mr. McIntyre because I wanted to and it made me happy, and he deserved it.

To an outsider it may have seemed like I got nothing out of it, but how can I explain the explosion of joy that went off every time I got a “nice work” or a “good job, Abby?”

What happened that morning with my diary was something else though, something new and of scared me more than all the secrets, all the waiting, and all the frustration. My heart had given up racing. There was a new fear, and it was slow and methodical.

He didn't call me into his office for the rest of the day. He came back from his meeting, and as he opened his door, I could see the little bit of pink on his desk. It was if he asked me to put my heart on his desk so that he could have it for lunch.

He went to another meeting a few hours later and had a drink with a client. When he came back, he didn't even look at me as he walked inside. His face was as unreadable as ever. I was sitting at my desk like a death row inmate. The calm of inevitable doom had come over me.

He would read my diary, and he would know what a horrible person I was. He would see that I was a pervert and that I was obsessed with him.

I thought about the ten pages I used up describing my first day of work. Paragraph after paragraph detailing my love of his chin, his cologne, the way he wore his suit, my feeble imaginings of the size of his cock.

I felt my face flush as I recalled the time his wife came into the office, which sent me into a long rant about what I imagined their sex life to be like.

At five he came out of his office holding his jacket, his briefcase, and my diary. He placed the book on my desk and looked down at me.

"Interesting. I wonder what Jung would say,” he said with a grin.

I felt his eyes on me, and I was frozen.

“I’d like you to finish writing out your dream,” he said plainly, as if telling me to water the plants.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I tried again, and it was only a croak.

"I don't rem-" I started, but he raised a hand.

"Make it up, then. Just finish it,” he said in that tone that told me not to argue.

He put his hat on and slipped his arm into his jacket.

“You certainly do have a healthy imagination, Abby,” he said with a smile as he left.

Surprisingly, I didn't cry on the train. I opened my little book and looked through the pages wondering what he'd read, wondering what he skipped. I fingered my silly words, my straight rows of Catholic school script. His shadow now loomed over every word. If he’d read enough, he now understood the awkward shyness that kept me home on Friday nights and the dirty thoughts that made my hands creep under my sheets at night or up my skirt -

A flash of dark ink caught my attention. It was on the next to last page I wrote in.

There I was in Mr. McIntyre's office, my skirt pulled up, and my hand pressed tightly in-between my panties and body. Soaking wet from the tension of the whole Marcy Peterson debacle, rubbing myself fast, hoping not to get caught, maybe hoping to get caught. My handwriting slightly sloppier as I wrote about how hard I came and how I pounded on his desk.

Under that little vignette was his dark bold print, the kind he uses to add an addendum to a contract.

“The things I miss when I’m out of the office.”