Chapter 9

Secrets – hidden burdens carried beneath our shared nakedness in this strange world of mailgirls and corporate expectations. The polished surface of Caroline’s desk seemed to mock me as I struggled for a reply that wouldn’t betray

A month had passed since that memorable evening with my parents, and Dad’s acceptance of Mark truly warmed my heart. Mark and I were blissful together, he had asked me to move in with him, and I gladly said yes.

Living together was pure bliss; finally, Mark and I felt like a genuine couple. His penthouse apartment proved ideal for our new life together, impeccably organized and spotlessly clean, reflecting his mature yet efficient nature. Though more than ten years my senior, that age difference made no difference whatsoever in the depth of love we shared.

Mark had been invited over to my parents’ house several more times, and he quickly hit it off with my father. The two would settle into the living room for extended chats whenever I stepped away, their glasses of scotch or whiskey resting beside them. My father regaled Mark with vivid stories from his youth in Ghana—the close-knit family gatherings, the lively village celebrations—and recounted his journey upon arriving in America.

My father also expressed sincere curiosity about Mark’s upbringing and younger days. As the two men continued their heartfelt conversations, they appeared genuinely content, almost as though everything was falling perfectly into place. Meanwhile, I resumed my duties at GlobalCom as a completely nude mailgirl. Being utterly exposed at work had grown entirely natural to me, the feeling of being bare was now second nature.

Sarah and Maria were my closest confidantes, and we’d unwind after our shifts with leisurely dinners followed by drinks at a cozy neighborhood bar. For hours on end, we’d share laughter and heartfelt conversations about everything from our daily triumphs to our deepest secrets. Meanwhile, Mark remained wonderfully supportive; he’d call just to check in on me without ever making demands. He cherished my independence, even celebrating my choice to embrace the mailgirl lifestyle at GlobalCom as a natural extension of who I was.

Our lust burned hotter than ever before, turning our nights into a raw, filthy frenzy. Every corner of his house became our personal fuck den as we tore into each other like animals in heat. We ravaged every surface—the kitchen counter where I bent over and took it doggstyle, the couch cushions still damp with my juices from hours earlier, even the cold tiles of the bathroom floor where he pinned me down and drove his cock deep inside my dripping pussy. My nipples were raw from sucking, my clit throbbing and swollen from being worked relentlessly with his tongue until I gushed all over his face. We fucked on tabletops sticky with sweat and cum, leaving handprints and ass stains everywhere as proof of our degenerate marathon sessions. By morning, there wasn’t one piece of furniture left untouched by our depraved hunger—we’d literally screwed in every room until the whole place reeked of sex.

During our Tennis social sessions, Mark and I reveled in a bold intimacy that left little to imagination. Whenever I delivered a particularly impressive shot, instead of the customary high five, he’d give my ass a playful slap—a gesture that never failed to send a jolt of excitement coursing through me. And when victory was ours, he wouldn’t hesitate to pull me close right there on the court, kissing me with raw passion while the others looked on.

One crisp Saturday morning, Mark and I arrived together at the Tennis club, where our local coach Alex was already instructing a group of adult beginners.

As I observed him attempting to teach proper form to the novices, his incessant focus on technical minutiae grated on my nerves; it felt utterly excessive for beginners still struggling simply to connect racket with ball.

Amanda: “Gosh, he just talks utter bullshit!” I muttered to Mark under my breath, careful to keep my voice low so Alex couldn’t hear me over his endless droning.

Mark: “He seems to know what he’s talking about though”

Amanda: “Yes, but when you’re a beginner, the purpose is to just hit balls, they don’t understand the technical stuff yet.”

Mark: “I see your point, just hit the ball”

Amanda: “Exactly, it doesn’t matter if you’re doing it wrong, just try and get the ball over the net and improve on it after.”

Mark: “I think you would make the perfect coach”

Amanda: “I don’t have the time, I’d love to.”

As we lingered nearby observing Alex, he finally permitted the novices to begin practicing. Amid them, one young woman stood out—her strokes were more effective than her peers’, even though her form was far from polished. Compared to the rest of the beginners, she demonstrated a natural aptitude despite her inefficient technique.

Mark: “She’s not too bad, she’s following the racket through and making good contact with the ball at least.”

I nodded in agreement, recognizing that with more practice, she held considerable potential. As the coaching session concluded and our Saturday social tennis was about to commence, I noticed her packing away her racket preparing to leave. Seizing the moment, I approached her before she could depart.

Amanda: “You’re pretty good!” I said trying to give her some enthusiasm.

The girl turned to me and smiled.

Melis: “Thank you”, she had an incredibly strong accent, she definitely wasn’t from America.

As soon as Alex heard me, he came up between us interjecting as if he had something far more important to add.

Alex: “She needs to sort that technique out, you’re not brushing the ball enough.”

Melis: “Yes, it’s still very bad. But I will try”, my annoyance evident.

Amanda: “She’s hitting the ball with conviction, following through and making good contact, that’s the essence of a good strike.”

Alex: “Please mind your own business Amanda, you’re not the coach here.”

Mark: “Hold on, Alex, you’re speaking to Amanda. When she gives her opinion on a stroke, I doubt anyone would dare contradict her.”

Alex rolled his eyes as he packed up his bags and left. Mark turned to the new girl.

Mark: “Let me introduce myself—I’m Mark, and this lovely lady is my girlfriend Amanda. She’s been honing her skills since childhood, reaching high professional level. In fact, she’s the finest talent this club has ever seen. So when Amanda praises your shots, you can take that as high praise indeed.”

Melis: “Thank you, my name is, Melis.”

Amanda: “Where are you from?”

Melis: “Turkey, I come here for study business, I have final exams in a couple months time.” she said in broken English but understandable.

Amanda: “It’s nice to meet you Melis, that’s a uniquely different name.”

Melis: “It is common in Turkey”

Mark: “Melis, why don’t you play in our social, everyone is welcome and you can improve.”

I glanced at Mark, wondering if he was flirting with Melis. Undeniably attractive, she possessed a figure that caught the eye.

Melis: “Oh no, I am not good enough. And I’m not a member, I just like the coaching.”

Amanda: “You can try it out, it’s okay, we welcome all levels.” Melis nodded looking excited to continue playing.

Mark: “Come, let’s warm up and hit some balls.” I shot Mark a sidelong look, questioning whether he was merely being welcoming or if my own perception was tinged with undue suspicion.

Melis: “Okay, I will give it a try.”

Mark: “Excellent. Let’s get you warmed up.”

Melis took her racket and stepped onto the court as Mark began feeding her balls one by one, watching intently as she hit each. Something in me made me quiver with unwanted jealousy.

Just then, Eric appeared on the court; he was usually a fixture at these social sessions.

Eric: “Hi Amanda,” he said, his gaze darting toward Melis as he watched her hitting balls with Mark. “Who’s that?”

Amanda: “That’s Melis—she was taking a coaching session,” I explained. Eric wandered over to Melis’s side of the court and introduced himself. She smiled warmly and shook his hand. I drifted toward Mark, and soon we were all practicing together before starting our game.

As we began our match, Mark and I intentionally kept our shots gentle, giving Melis ample opportunity to connect with the ball. There was no need to overwhelm her as she adjusted to the rhythm of the game. Meanwhile, Eric launched powerful returns in my direction, though his aggressive attempts frequently sent the ball wide of its mark. It was clear he hoped to catch Melis’s attention with his forceful play.

Eric’s playful antics and light-hearted banter had Melis giggling with delight. Each time she landed a particularly good shot or when they secured a point together, Eric would enthusiastically high-five her, his grin widening with every successful exchange.

Mark: “Looks like Eric is really trying to impress her” he said to me.

Amanda: “He’s completely botching every shot just to put on a display.” Mark chuckled.

As Eric prepared to serve, he called out to Melis, “Move a little closer to the net!” With that, he tossed the ball and swung with all his might, aiming for a powerful serve. But instead of clearing the net, the ball struck Melis squarely on her thigh. She instinctively grabbed the spot where it had made contact. Eric’s eyes widened in horror as he rushed over.

Eric: “Oh shit! I’m so sorry—are you okay?”

Melis clutched her thigh, the pain unmistakable as she nodded, “I’m fine”. Yet a single tear escaped and trailed down her cheek from the sting.

Amanda: “Way to go, Eric—now she’s learning to be terrified of the game,” I snapped. My words hung in the air as his face went pale. Accidents like this happened all the time on the court, but it was his desperate attempt to impress Melis that had turned a simple drill into something far more painful.

Melis limped away, her hand still pressed to her throbbing thigh, and sank onto a bench near the sidelines. Eric hovered nearby, his face ashen as remorse washed over him in waves. He had been so eager to capture Melis’s attention with his bold shots that he had lost control—and now she was hurt because of his foolishness.

I moved beside Melis on the bench, inspecting her injury closely. A faint purple mark was already beginning to surface on her thigh where the ball had struck her. She winced slightly as she gently massaged the tender area with her fingertips. Reaching into my bag, I retrieved a small canister of topical anesthetic spray designed specifically for sports-related bruises and contusions. Without hesitation I applied a generous mist directly onto her injured skin.

Amanda: “It should numb the pain” she smiled gratefully.

Melis: “I can’t believe how hard the ball is, I thought tennis balls was soft.”

Amanda: “That’s what people who haven’t played the game think. When it hits, it can sting very badly.”

Melis: “I learned a good lesson, do not listen to Eric!”

Amanda: “That’s good advice”, I chuckled.

After practice ended, Eric extended an invitation to Melis, offering to treat her to a drink inside the clubhouse. Though she hesitated briefly, she eventually agreed. We settled into a quiet corner of the club, each of us holding a beverage. Mark and Eric each held bottles of beer in their hands while Melis and I sipped glasses of house wine from the bar.

I sat next to Mark as Eric was sitting a little too close to Melis, who felt a little uncomfortable.

Amanda: “So Melis, what are your plans after your studies?”

Melis: “I want to find work, it will be difficult because if I don’t I will have to go back to Turkey. I want to stay here. My visa will expire 6 months later.”

Eric jumped at the chance, as he turned to me.

Eric: “Why don’t you ask your work place Amanda, maybe they can give her a work visa”, Melis looked at me with wide eyes, feeling an opportunity may rise.

I was startled when Eric brought that up, at work, I was a naked mailgirl, and no one at the club except Mark knew it. Mark also seemed uneasy.

Mark: “I don’t think it’s that easy Eric”

Eric: “They hire interns or juniors right?” he was adamant.

Amanda: “Yes, but generally not people straight out of university, they do require some experience.”

Melis’s eyes lowered in slight disappointment.

Melis: “It’s okay, I’m sure I can find something.”

Eric’s gaze met mine, pleading silently. He hoped I might throw Melis a lifeline. Yet the bitter truth remained—I wielded no influence at work. There, I was simply a lowly naked mailgirl. Worse still, how could I justify her presence at GlobalCom where she’d inevitably witness me exposed and kneeling before everyone? The mere notion sent an involuntary tremor through my body.

Amanda: “I can ask around Melis, see if there’s a place for you,” I lied. My words were empty, meant only to end this line of questioning.

Melis smiled genuinely, “That would be nice, thank you. Can I send my resume?” I nodded as I wrote down my personal email address and gave it to her. She placed it carefully in her bag making sure she wouldn’t lose it.

I empathized deeply with her plight, acutely aware of the brutal realities of the job market. For someone seeking employment in business, the search was daunting—a relentless gauntlet where six months often proved insufficient to secure even the most basic position.

Amanda: “You don’t want to go back to Turkey?”

Melis: “It’s okay but I like it here, there my father will probably try to arrange me to marry someone.” Eric chimed in straight away.

Eric: “Would they force you into marriage?” he said in a shocked manner.

Melis: “No! they would encourage me. And maybe find someone for me. It is my choice.”

I felt a pang of understanding. The situation struck a familiar chord, it reminded me of Ghana, where my father had often suggested traveling back home to find a suitable husband. The very idea made me recoil, as if I were merely an object to be claimed and displayed. That’s exactly how I’d always perceived it—reducing my worth to little more than a prized possession.

Eric turned to Mark, casually inquiring about intern opportunities at his workplace, seemingly championing Melis’s cause. My gut twisted with sudden possessiveness, a fierce urge to shove him away surged through me. I could already picture it—Melis working intimately alongside Mark while I remained kneeling naked at GlobalCom.