‘And that’s all you do?’ I ask, as though none of that’s enough on its own. He has fantasies about eating my cunt in office hallways, for God’s sake. How did I ever think I would shame him by bringing up a little light masturbation? ‘You just stroke me?’
He lets out a little flustered breath.
‘Well, no. Obviously not.’
‘Do I actually have to prompt you, Benjamin?’
He spreads his hands again, but this time it’s like he’s trying to hit a reset button. It’s like he’s trying to rewind everything and go back and be better.
‘No, no – I … I fuck you. With my fingers.’
‘I see.’
‘And … uh … sometimes you’re so wet, and so turned on, that I don’t just use one or two. I get three of my fingers into your pussy, and when I do you twist your hands in my hair. You make me do it harder, faster, until I can just about feel you coming.’
I’d call his fantasy very unrealistic, if I didn’t suspect that he could feel me coming from all the way over there, if he so chose. In fact, I think he’s going to do just that really soon. The pulse in my clit feels immense, all-consuming, and whenever I let my eyes wander down over his solid body, said pulse gets worse.
He’s hard, and very obviously so. It looks like a great thick fist beneath the material of those crappy trousers, so swollen that I can just about make out things I probably shouldn’t be able to. Like the fact that he isn’t circumcised, despite being as American as an over-sweet slice of apple pie.
‘I see. And if I said to you that your babbling mouth really needs a ball gag … would you wear one around the office for me?’ I ask, because really I’m going to need a lot more than a bit of mild ass-licking to jolt him. Or at least, I think so until he actually replies.
And then I’m just not sure where his boundaries lie at all.
‘Oh my God. You wouldn’t really ask me to do that, would you?’
‘Whether I would or not is hardly the question. Read it back to me, Benjamin – what was I asking, exactly?’
He strains, briefly, to remember – then seems almost overjoyed when it finally occurs to him. He snaps his fingers at me, which only suggests how much trouble I’m in. Even so silly a gesture gets me going.
‘You asked whether I’d do it.’
‘And would you?’
His eyes drift closed again, but that’s not what I notice. It’s his hand I see, as it slides down over the jutting shape in the front of his trousers. And I don’t mind admitting the sight jolts me, like a little electric shock applied to the base of my spine.
He’s touching himself. He’s touching his obviously hard cock right in front of me, without a hint of shame or restraint. In truth, I’m not sure if he knows what shame or restraint are. His prick is stiff, and he wants to touch it.
So he just does.
‘Yes,’ he says, almost too faint for me to hear. It’s like he’s lost inside himself, suddenly – but that’s fine. I’m more than willing to drag him back out again.
‘And just me looking at you a certain way makes you this … sluttish?’
He squeezes himself through his trousers on that last word, in a way that exposes most of the shape to my greedy gaze. And it is greedy by this point. My mouth practically floods with saliva to see that solid, lengthy outline through his crappy trousers.
‘Is that how I seem?’ he asks, breathless and just ever so slightly incredulous. I don’t know why the latter’s there, however. He’s playing with himself in my office, for God’s sake. He’s got a hand under his shirt now, and I can actually see the pale, flat expanse of his belly.
He’s the epitome of a slut, and I tell him so.
‘I don’t see how you could fail to realise,’ I say, but here’s the thing – he doesn’t then get a hold of himself. He doesn’t stop groping his cock or the skin underneath his shirt.
On the contrary.
He goes at both things more lewdly. That hand disappears all the way up inside his clothes until I’m fairly certain he really, really wants to touch one of his own nipples. Maybe pinch it a little in a way I’m imagining doing to him, right now.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, but he isn’t. He isn’t at all. He’s biting his lip and getting very close to just out and out masturbation, right in front of me.
And ohhh, it’s almost desperately arousing. If I had half of his abandon, I’d put my hand inside my own shirt right now. My nipples feel almost sore beneath the crinkly press of my too-lacy bra, and every time I move it’s a kind of agony.
One that he doesn’t seem to be labouring under.
‘Don’t be sorry. Just answer my original question: does me looking at you a certain way arouse you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what way would that be exactly?’
‘The way you’re looking at me now.’
I almost put my hand to my face, just to check whatever’s actually on there. Am I stern right now, am I a mask? Does he look at me and see the grey implacability of Woods written all over my features?
‘You like it?’ I ask, and have to work to keep my own hint of incredulity out of there. He doesn’t hesitate, however.
‘Yes.’
‘You like me telling you off?’
‘Yes.’
Of course, I knew what the answer would be. It’s obvious by this point – and yet the admission still makes me jerk, in the same way the word sluttish had made him jerk. I feel my clit swell between already swollen lips, and I have to do something crazy – like maybe pinching myself somewhere horrible – just to keep my manner as cool and collected as he seems to think it is.
‘I see. Well. That does leave me in a rather difficult position, Benjamin.’
My God, is that the understatement of the year. I can almost feel my sanity sliding away from me as we speak, but somehow I manage to cling onto the reins. I focus on the matter at hand:
He likes to be told what to do.
And I definitely have something I’d like him to participate in.
‘I mean, how am I supposed to successfully reprimand you for doing something so disgusting?’
His breath hitches in his chest, and those maddening fingers just sort of slowly, slowly slide over the now thrillingly clear shape of his cock. It’s so clear, in fact, that I can make out the ridge around the head. I can make out the suggestion of his balls below. And I can definitely make out that thing I thought I saw a few moments earlier.
Though of course I pretend I’m not looking at all.
‘The second I do, you’re just going to get yourself into this state again.’
His gaze slides sideways the second I use the word state, in a manner I’m now starting to find familiar. He did the same thing when I suggested he sit on my floor and play with coloured blocks, and somehow I don’t think the expression means I’m so ashamed of myself.
Or maybe it does, but it’s almost certainly followed by and it feels soooo good.
‘I mean, you’re so hard I can just about make out the fact that you’re not circumcised.’
Of course, I expect him to flush when I say it. But though he looks awkward and fumbly and faintly embarrassed by my confession, he doesn’t go red. He half-laughs instead, and says, ‘You can really see that?’
Swiftly followed by yet more completely irrelevant chatter.
‘It’s ’cause my parents were kind of hippies, and they –’
And I know I keep doing it, but I have to cut him off again. I can’t possibly let him see how intriguing I find his frankness. How odd it is to me, to discover someone who will just go into a mess of detail on the strangest and most private topics.
‘I didn’t ask you to tell me your life story,’ I say, and feel mean about it. But here’s the thing – he just keeps right on talking.
‘Is it a problem? I thought most English guys –’
I shake my head, far more abruptly than I’m actually feeling. Inside I’ve turned to some sort of inescapable
mush. It’s like having sinking sand in the place where my heart used to be, and I’m slowly getting sucked into it.
‘It’s not a problem. The fact that you’re masturbating in my office is more of one, in truth.’
‘Sorry, sorry,’ he says, and again I notice that odd mouth. Sometimes it hardly seems to open at all, when he talks. ‘I’m just so … God. I don’t think I’ve ever been this excited in my life.’
Though I pay less attention to said mouth when he’s finished with those particular words. Instead, two sides of myself war. One is almost as thrilled as he seems to be, just at the sound of him saying something like that.
The other tells him: ‘I doubt that’s true. You seem pretty excitable to me.’
He shrugs one big shoulder, like the non-verbal equivalent of the word helpless.
‘I guess I am. A strong wind can make me hard.’
‘I see,’ I say, while the heart I don’t have in my chest beats and beats, between my legs. God, he is a slut.‘Well, that is an interesting fact.’
He squinches his face up, as though sensible of a mistake he’s just made.
‘Yeah, I know it’s not interesting at all. I realise how it makes me seem – my last girlfriend said I was like a big puppy dog.’
The description is so apt I almost laugh, but manage to rein it in at the last moment. I have to, after all. The one in charge of proceedings isn’t permitted a giggle.
‘Your last girlfriend was very bright, if a little remiss in the doing something about it department.’
‘Really? What do you think she should have done?’
He’s practically on tiptoes now. Body leaning forward in lieu of those last few steps towards the desk he can’t quite make.
That’s fine, however. My legs are feeling just as wobbly as they were before, but I think I can manage to stand. I want to stand, and cross the beautiful cream carpet to him – though of course the moment I do his breathing quickens. His eyes get bigger.
‘Taken the matter in hand,’ I murmur, when I’m close enough to do so. From where I’m stood – not two inches from his shivering body – I can smell his cologne. It’s Davidoff Cool Water, I think, which is just so very him. Sort of clumsy, with a side order of handsome, clean-cut American-ness about it, the scent easily conjuring up images of wholesome types diving off cliffs in their underwear.
Preferably right into my vagina.
‘Really?’ he asks, but he’s surer now. I can see it, in the way he leans down just a little. That foggy gaze of his stroking all over my face as he does so, lips parted to let his warm breath ghost over my skin.
He thinks he’s going to get something now, clearly. And I don’t mind admitting that I want to give it, Lord how I want to. I have to make a little circle around him, just to keep everything inside myself straight and true.
‘Of course,’ I say, each firm step making me steelier, stronger. I’m on the cusp, I think, and then I just let my fingertips trail over something innocuous, like the solid black line of his belt, just above his ass. ‘A man like you needs a firm hand, don’t you think?’
This time when I stand before him he doesn’t suggest he’s leaning down. He just does it, that full, soft mouth of his searching for mine. Eyes near closed, everything about the moment so sweet and delicious in a way that makes my heart ache.
Yet just as I’m about to finally feel his lips against mine, just as I’m opening to him, I realise something. It’s not just about me being in charge of him. It’s about me being in charge of myself.
And then I turn my head to whisper in his ear: ‘You’re forbidden to touch yourself for the next three days.’
Chapter Five
I know he’s obeyed me, the next time I see him. Truth is, I don’t have to try very hard to come to that conclusion. He looks like the before picture on an advert for something that stops you starving yourself. He looks like he’s sort of gone mad overnight, and now his big stare-y eyes are darting around the insides of this tiny elevator, checking for the people who are almost definitely coming to take him away.
And if all of that wasn’t enough, he has hair on his face. Actual hair, all grey and bristly and rough over places I hadn’t expected it to be, like his neck. Like his heavy-boned cheeks, as though he could grow a full beard if he so chose.
Of course, the sight immediately makes me wonder something completely irrelevant, like: how old is he, exactly?
But I can’t blame myself for that. It’s been on my mind ever since I creamed my panties over him. Prior to this moment I’d thought he was maybe twenty-seven, twenty-eight, but just the thought of that number makes me clench all over. Five years younger than me isn’t much, by most people’s standards.
But it’s too much for me. I can’t be a cougar at the age of thirty-two.
And judging by that stubble, I might not have to be.
‘Good morning, Benjamin,’ I say, as I take my place next to him, against one of the mirrored walls. In return, he tries to say something back. Something faint that’s not really a word, followed by the kind of silent tension I’ve never experienced in my entire life.
Not even with Woods. We used to ride up together in this elevator like we didn’t know each other, but the problem is, Benjamin’s not closed down enough for that. And even if he was, I seem to be doing a piss-poor job of that very thing.
The moment I’m certain he’s not looking, I glance up and sideways.
Only to find he is looking. He’s looking so hard I feel sure he wants to kill me with his eyes.
‘Did you have a good weekend?’ I ask, because he’s not talking. In fact he’s sort of tilting towards me, in a way that reminds me of things it definitely shouldn’t. Like an animal, I think, unbidden. Like an animal, seeking out the warmth and heat and scent of another body.
And the awful thing is, it doesn’t get any better when someone else enters the elevator on floor seven. Instead, that strange sort of tension between us seems to get worse and worse, culminating in the strangest little details – like his grey jumper-covered arm brushing faintly against mine.
Or the feel of his overheated breath on the side of my face.
Of course I don’t dare turn now. If he’s actually managing to breathe on me, he must be leaning really far down. He’s about six foot seven hundred, and I’m five-five in heels. And though that thought is strangely exciting – his closeness, his size – I can feel a calm settling over me. I can feel it in the same way I can feel my own arousal, the two things now somehow inextricably linked.
I have to be in charge of myself, I think, and then when Henry Breckenmeyer’s back is to us, I just reach one slow hand up and find the side of Benjamin’s face. I don’t look at him, I don’t outwardly react, I don’t give any indication of what I’m doing. I just ever so calmly push his face back into the position it’s supposed to be. But here’s the kicker: he makes a sound when I do it. And by God, it’s not an innocent little noise of complaint. It’s this big, blurty, rude-sounding motherfucker, so loud that he has to smuggle it into a cough a tuberculosis sufferer would be proud of, while I fight to keep the weird, trembling smile off my face. I don’t know why a smile wants to come, to be honest. Woods never smiled. So why is this urge bubbling up inside me?‘My office,’ I say to Benjamin, the second the doors slide open on the fifteenth floor. And he not only understands exactly what I mean, he follows me through the still carpet-quiet corridors, like someone who’s about to faint.
No, really. He looks like someone who’s about to faint. I see it all over him when I sit myself in my big leather chair, to watch him attempting to do something as simple as close a door. And then once he’s done it, he practically staggers to my desk.
Though unfortunately for Benjamin, he doesn’t stop where he should.
There’s a line, you see. I’ve drawn it in my mind, right where my desk ends and the rest of the office begins. It’s perfectly clear and straight, starting on the sharp edge of that wood and continuing cleanly on, i
nvisible, to the bookcase on the left and the sideboard on the right. And Benjamin crosses it, without so much as a by your leave. He puts his big, clumsy hands all over the polished wood as he staggers around my desk to get at me. Because that’s definitely what he’s doing. He’s actually trying to get at me, in a way I’ve never seen a man do before. He looks almost greedy – no, in fact he looks crazy – and I have to say … the sight of such a thing almost overrides the line. For one delirious second I imagine just spreading my legs and hiking up my skirt.
Come on and give it to me, I could say, and for once in my paltry little life I know someone actually would. He’s hard already, before I’ve done anything, and every step he takes seems to shoot a sort of agony across his features, as though he’s carrying something far too hot and far too heavy between his legs.
‘Where exactly do you think you’re going, Benjamin?’ I ask, but I do something far worse than that as I speak those clear, cold words.
The second he gets close enough to actually reach out and touch me, I just unfold one leg from its position, crossed neatly over my knee. And then I plant my heeled foot right in the centre of his broad chest.
I’m really not certain which startles him more – the words, or the feel of my near-stiletto suddenly pressed against his firm flesh. But either way, he jerks to a halt. He has to. I’m holding him there with one braced leg, and I’m not certain I mind that his eyes dart directly down to the dark place the move has revealed.
It’s sort of hitched my skirt all on its own, and I’m sure if he squints hard he’ll be able to see the panties I’m not wearing. Or smell the slickness that’s already all over my bare cunt.
‘I just thought …’ he starts, but of course he has no idea how to end that sentence. I think it’s pretty clear to him, by this point, that he can’t go with that I’d get to fuck you now.
‘Go stand back over there, on your spot,’ I say, and for one glorious moment he actually sags against the shoe I’ve still got pressed to his chest. Words spill out of him, as his weary eyes close – words like ‘oh, you’ve got to be kidding, I’m dying here’.
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