Mister

So, I've taken to calling The CEO "Mister."

To his face. Like Claire Danes' character in the movie (and book–the book is really good! And Steve Martin wrote it, the fancypants.) Shopgirl. It's funny, because it started off in my head as "Mister Big," which I would never have called him to his face. But tell a girl about your cars to the airport and private planes to The Bahamas enough, and she'll come up with a suitable pseudonym for you. Soon, "Mister" worked its way into my greetings to him.

As in, "Hi, there, Mister!" Or, "Hey Mister, roll over so I can put my mouth on your cock." Stuff like that.

Following suit, he started calling me Miss.

It adds to the discreetness and covertness of our relationship, and it's not icky Dominant/submissive like it would be if I called him Sir. Which I would never do. Because, eeyew.

One day we were lying in bed at a hotel near his golf course while he was supposedly playing the back nine, when he asked what I was doing the following week, "Um, seeing you?" I replied.

"I hope so, but get this: The Business School at XYZ University has asked me to speak at their Commencement that day."

"Wow, Mister, that's special!"

"Yeah, but I suck at public speaking."

"Would it help you relax if you were sucked before speaking in public?"

(A-hahahaha. I crack myself up.)

"Miss, you read my mind. That could be just the thing to take a fellow's mind off of speeches. I'd like you to come to the thing, too, if you could."

"Wouldn't it make you nervous if I was there?"

"No, I think I'd feel better knowing you were out there. We could meet here and then drive over separately and come back to the room if there's time. So, yeah, I'm talking about all afternoon."

Oh, the prospect of this got my knickers wet.