Chapter 9: The Intern at the party

Once she had an intern named Leila; her parents were acquaintances of one of her bosses, rich Tunisians who lived here year-round. They had put her in a very prestigious college, but Leila barely coasted through it; she was lazy and careless, though with flash of true intelligence when she bothered to apply it. It was obvious the Tunisian girl did not care for that internship, and she had to point to her the same mistakes several times. Leila barely listened, her attitude verged on insolence. She fumed at having to put up with her.

He started coming in her office to be around Leila. He just stayed there, on the flimsiest of pretexts, sniffing the smell of her young brown skin, darting quick looks at her heavy breast and legs, at her lips, the sort of quick dirty glances men think women don’t notice. Leila did not understand what his job was, as it had nothing to do with HR, and she was too incurious to figure it out, but she picked up on her supervisor’s deference to him, and showed him rather less insolence than to her. He asked the intern questions about her studies, and what she wanted to do later, where she lived, et cetera. She looked at them with some horror, thinking he might enthrall Leila as he had her, and she might have to share his semen with the intern, or lose him altogether. This caused her to become curter and more critical toward Leila, which caused some resentment in the younger woman and amused him greatly.

Things came to a head at a party their firm threw for the retirement of an executive. It took place in the cafeteria floor, after hours; the catering was good and there was alcohol, they played music on a laptop with some speakers Patrick Chen had brought from home. The retiring executive gave a small speech, received a gift card for exercise equipment, and then left early, but the party went on. Everyone seemed in a good mood, talking and gossiping. He spent most of the time talking with Leila, sometimes loudly, sometimes more discreetly, at the edge of the party; Leila listened to him with interested eyes, and occasional bursts of annoying laughter.

Finally he walked up to her, while her intern looked at them an giggled. “We’re going at Leila’s,” he said. She understood the ‘we’ with a shudder.

In the metro she leant against the door on the side they don’t open, and he caressed her little breasts, while Leila sat and looked at them, a little mockingly, talking with him about the usual metro line she took to college, and how slow and crowded it was.

“Sometimes perverts stare at my breasts,” Leila said, a bit loud, while she gazed merrily at his hands squeezing her manager’s smaller chest. She said nothing, but she was not allowed to look down; she could see other passengers watching them. Some watched her body and some her face, and she tried not to give them too much of a show.

“Sometimes they try to catch a glimpse up my skirt,” Leila said, with perverse cruelty, knowing fully well what she suggested. “Like that?” He ignored her pleading eyes, bent and grabbed the hem of her skit and lifted it all the way up, showing her long thin pale legs and all of her white panties. Many others were looking at them; a group of tourists were actually staring, mouths agape; three loud, brutish-looking youths had stopped talking to enjoy the show. “No fur for them to see,” Leila said. “Oh, do they see fur under you skirt?” he asked. “Maybe.” Leila’s face was flushed with alcohol, laughter, and a little embarrassment. Did that girl truly realize ho far this might go?

He lifted her skirt again, way above her panties. and this time Leila actually leaned forward to look. Above the white cotton there was a narrow strip of blonde pubes. Leila burst out laughing. One of the youths rose...

“Oh, that’s my station!” Leila exclaimed. They rushed out of the subway train.