by Cynthia Sax
“Thank you, Belinda.” My boss’s voice is filled with genuine gratitude.
I glow with happiness. “Don’t worry about tomorrow, sir. I’ll organize everything.” Susan shared that, in previous years, the entire office was called to the workroom to hear the announcement. “I’ll order some coffee, maybe some cupcakes. We’ll time it for two o’clock.” That’s when all of the previous office announcements were made. “I’ll invite everyone, including the volunteers.”
Mr. Peterson raises his hairy eyebrows. “You’d do that?”
“Of course, sir.” I beam at him. “I’ll take care of everything.” It feels strange to be organizing my own party, but I’ll do anything to make my boss happy.
His eyes mist as though he’s on the verge of tears. “I couldn’t ask for a better employee than you, Belinda. I—”
“I’m a reflection of my boss, sir.” I stand and brusquely smooth the wrinkles in my dress, his gushing making me a bit uncomfortable, nothing in the college magazine preparing me for this excess of emotion. “As a good employee should be.”
As Dru never will be, my coworker not caring about her boss or anyone else. Mr. Peterson is an intelligent man. He knows this, knows I’m the only logical choice. I stride out of the office, unable to contain my wide grin. The full-time position is mine. This is the best day ever.
Dru smirks at me as I approach. “He couldn’t have told you.” The auburn beauty runs an emery board over her perfect nails. “Or you wouldn’t be so flippin’ happy.”
“I’m not listening to you.” My voice lilts. She’s trying to cause chaos again, to fill my mind with doubt, but she can’t steal my joy today. I’m immune to her tricks. “I have a party to plan.” I sit in my worn, tattered chair and remove a yellow lined notepad and a pen from the bottom drawer of my desk. My gaze lifts to the locked top drawer, the urge to peruse my new purse tremendous.
“What?” Dru laughs, the sound thin and brittle and fake. “He asked you to plan my party?” My troublemaking coworker whistles softly. “Greg’s got balls. I mean I knew he had balls.” She taps her top lip with the tip of her tongue. “I had them in my mouth last night but—”
“Gross.” I wrinkle my nose, wondering if I’ll ever be able to scorch that obscene visual out of my brain. “Do me a favor and keep your nasty fantasies to yourself.” I write the word party on the top of the page in bold block letters.
“It was no fantasy.” Dru blows on her nails. “Though I’ve had worse. Some managers expect it. Greg resisted at first, telling me it was wrong, we shouldn’t do it, blah, blah, blah.” She takes a bottle of hot pink nail polish out of her black no-name purse. “It was all an act. He had a condom in his wallet.”
“And you’re telling me this—why?” I ask, knowing damn well why she’s sharing her invented life with me. She’s intent on causing turmoil between my boss and me.
Dru has tried her best to make my life hell throughout our entire contract. During our first week of work, she spread a rumor that I’d slept with the head of human resources, a kind, portly man who is happily married and has two sons older than I am.
Mr. Peterson ignored that gossip. I’ll ignore the equally outrageous stories Dru is fabricating about him.
“I’m telling you this because no one should be so pathetically naïve and trusting.” She drags the applicator across her thumbnail, leaving a streak of vivid color. “He doesn’t deserve your undying loyalty, Bee. He’s simply a man.” Harsh fumes swirl around her, stinging my eyes.
“He’s not simply a man.” I add coffee and cupcakes to my party list, underlining both twice. “He’s our boss and that’s why he deserves our loyalty.” Her campaign to ruin my opinion of Mr. Patterson is sad, a sign of a desperate woman. I’ve been desperate in the past, made some bad decisions, but that doesn’t mean I condone her actions.
Or like her.
At all.
I turn my back toward Dru and concentrate on my happy task, imagining the party of my dreams. Everyone in the building would attend. I’d wear a navy blue taffeta Vivienne Westwood gown with a draped neck and pleaded waist, the style fun and retro. A single strand of pearls would encircle my neck. I touch my chest. The red Salvatore Ferragamo purse on my arm would stand out, a pop of joyous color, drawing the eyes of attendees.
I list the types of cupcakes I’ll order for the party. Red velvet cupcakes are a must. That’s my roommate’s favorite kind and, as I’m the guest of honor, I doubt anyone would mind if I took one cupcake home for her. I reluctantly add vanilla. Some people don’t like chocolate for some strange reason. Mocha is also listed. Many of the volunteers guzzle coffee by the cupfuls. Is that enough?
The number of cupcakes will depend upon the number of attendees. Susan will know how many people attended last year’s announcement. She could also send the e-mail invitations, saving me the embarrassment of inviting people to my own party.
Because it is my party. I stand, shaking with excitement. Mr. Peterson doesn’t want me to cross-train with Susan, but I’m sure he won’t mind if I ask her for help with this event. I smooth my trembling hands over my dress.
Dru lifts her eyebrows as she talks on her phone. I ignore her, striding with long, purposeful steps toward the reception area. Volunteers rush by me. I smile and commit their faces to memory. They might attend tomorrow’s announcement and I should know them. They’re my coworkers.
I enter reception and Susan grins at me. She’s positioned behind her big desk and is surrounded by a hostile horde of delivery people. “What’s up, Bee?” She turns her back to the crowd. She can do this without worrying about being fired. She’s a full-time employee. “You look ecstatic.”
I am ecstatic, barely able to contain my happiness, my bliss bubbling inside me. “I need your help to plan tomorrow’s announcement.”
“No way,” Susan squeals, hugging me tightly. We bounce up and down while deliverymen grumble. “I’m so happy,” she shares. “I knew the rumors were false. Three guesses who started those.” She rolls her eyes. “Ohhhh . . .” My friend hugs me again. “You’re one of us now.”
“Shhhh . . .” I hush her halfheartedly, thrilled by her reaction. “Nothing is official until tomorrow.” Tomorrow I’ll truly be part of the team. I’ll belong, be one of them. “I don’t want to cause any trouble for Mr. Peterson.”
“Unlike some people who thrive on causing trouble.” Susan’s eyes gleam. She hasn’t forgiven Dru for spreading a nasty story about her and a marijuana-smoking window washer. “Your boss would have been a fool to give the position to her.”
“Mr. Peterson isn’t a fool.” I glow.
“Are you taking deliveries sometime today?” a tall scrawny bike courier asks. Need for Speed is blazed across his dented helmet. His bike shorts are obscenely tight, outlining his junk, as Hawke would call it.
“Yeah, yeah, hold your horses.” Susan waves her right hand. “Sorry,” she apologizes to me. “I have to deal with this madness.” She takes a crisp twenty-dollar bill out of her top drawer. “Can you run to the deli and grab my usual? Get yourself a sandwich too, my treat.” I open my mouth to protest her generosity. “We’ll have a secret celebration,” she adds before I can say anything. “And plan your party while we eat.”
We’ll plan my party. I sprint outside, dodging the raindrops, buoyed by happiness. The deli is less than a block away and I arrive there in record time, wait patiently in the long line, recite Susan’s regular order. My friend always eats the same thing on Thursdays—a turkey sub, extra pickles, hold the cream sauce, on a toasted whole-wheat bun. I pick up the same sandwich for myself and dash back.
When I return to the office, the bike courier deluge has slowed to a trickle. We munch away at Susan’s desk, sending the invitations and dealing with random deliverymen. My friend talks about the Magnificent Ball, the office holiday party, and other events I’ll be participating in now that I’m full-time.
She shares secrets she’s never told me previously because I’m no
longer an outsider, a temporary worker who might leave tomorrow. I’m truly part of the team now. My chest heats, expanding with more and more joy until I feel as though I’ll burst. This is what I’ve always wanted: a permanent place where I belong.
I linger at reception for an hour and a half. When I wander back to the workroom, Dru is gone, likely enjoying one of her infamous two-hour lunches. Tomorrow, she can enjoy a five-hour lunch. Contract employees work only until noon on their last days.
Mr. Peterson’s door is closed as it always is after lunch. He usually emerges from his office around three o’clock, looking suspiciously refreshed. I suspect he takes a nap.
The space is eerily quiet, too quiet for my hyper mood, my form vibrating with excitement. I sit at my desk and my gaze drifts to the top drawer. I’m alone. No one will know I looked.
My fingers tremble as I turn the key in the lock, slide the drawer open. I look down and my breath catches. The purse is divine, more exquisite than I remember. I run my hands lovingly over the leather, savoring every inch of the rich material.
The surface vibrates under my fingertips, purring like a contented cat, a pet I always wanted yet could never have. Landlords frowned upon tenants having animals, and my mom wouldn’t give them any additional reasons to reject our applications.
I unzip the purse and remove my phone, wondering who could be calling me. Cyndi, my mom, everyone I know should be at work . . . except Hawke, and he doesn’t have my number.
The display glows blue and my heart pounds. I have a text message.
Friendly: Remove your panties. Good girls earn rewards.
My face heats. I gaze around me, ensuring no one is watching me. The room is empty, Mr. Peterson’s door remaining closed. I reread the message once, twice, three more times, my body shaking with excitement, fear, arousal.
He wants me to remove my panties, to go bare under my other clothing. His request is naughty, so very, very naughty, something I’ve never done, should never consider.
Should I? My dress is lined, the fabric dark, the hemline conservatively knee-length. No one would know I’m not wearing panties, no one except Friendly and myself.
I frown. And how would he know?
He wouldn’t. I could keep my panties on, continue to act like a classy lady, ignore this challenge. My skimpy little G-string panties leave no lines under my dress. Friendly, whoever he is, won’t be able to tell I disobeyed him.
But deceiving him wouldn’t be right. I twist my lips. And I always try to do the right thing, to live my life with some sense of honor, of loyalty. Nicolas investigated me. He knows this about me. Hell, everyone knows this about me.
The panties have to go. I clutch my purse and scurry along the hallway. A tall dark-haired man smiles at me as I walk by him, and my cheeks burn. Does he know what I’m about to do?
I turn into the bathroom. The space is empty, all three of the stalls free. Choosing the larger handicapped stall, I close the door, extract a disinfectant wipe from my purse, sweep it over the low-hanging hook, vigorously scrubbing the dirty door.
When I’m finally satisfied it’s clean, I discard the wipe, loop my purse handles on the hook, and lean against the door, listening. The fan hums. I hear no footsteps, no murmurs of voices. Assured I’m alone, I remove my panties as quickly and as quietly as I can, first balancing on one high heel and then on the other, sliding the scrap of silk over my bare legs.
This is wicked, perverted, wrong. Yet it feels so right, my inner freak ecstatic with the new sensations, the simple skim of fabric across neatly trimmed private hair making my body hum. The shift of cloth over skin is sensual, erotic, emphasized by my awareness, and I want, need, crave release.
I can’t touch myself, can’t lift the hem of my dress to my waist and rub my fingertips across my wet pussy lips, teasing my clit with my thumbs. There’s no giving myself the mind-blowing orgasm that I yearn for, no plunging my fingers into my tight entrance. Having never masturbated in public, I won’t start here, at work, where coworkers can hear me, can guess what I’m doing.
I can control myself, be the good girl everyone expects. Biting back my frustration, I fold my bright blue panties into a neat square, slip the dainty bundle into my purse, and close the zipper.
My hips sway as I return to my desk. Every step causes cool air to sweep over my heated pussy and brings the risk of exposure. My skirt could ride up, revealing the curve of my bare ass, the brown curls covering my mons, the pink moist center of me. Everyone could see.
And this thrills me. I’m now an object of desire, erotic, womanly, powerful. My pace slows and my passion rises. This rush of adrenaline, of sexual energy, must be why Hawke stands on his balcony naked, daring the world to look at him. I want people to look at me also, to lust after me, to do anything to have me.
I enter the workroom. Dru hasn’t returned from lunch and Mr. Peterson’s door remains closed, the space as vacant and ugly as it had been when I left. Only I’ve changed, the pink blush of arousal coloring my surroundings. This is no longer the site of gainful employment. This is a possible rendezvous spot.
Nicolas wouldn’t fuck me here. He’s too sophisticated, too restrained.
Hawke, however, wouldn’t have any misgivings. He’d stride toward me, his pale blue eyes glimmering with intent, the tattooed biker knowing I was bare, wet, willing. Our gazes would meet and hold, words unnecessary to communicate our need. He wants me and he’ll have me right here, right now.
Hawke would lift me onto one of the hideous tables and spread my legs, opening me completely to him. My bad boy wouldn’t bother to undress. He’d simply unzip his pants, pull out his hard cock, and drive his rigid length into my slick pussy. He’d take me hard and fast, thrusting in and out, grunting in my ear, using me for a quick sexual release, and I’d like it, love it.
God, I’m such a pervert. I lower to my chair’s threadbare seat and moan softly, my desire raging out of control.
Removing a fragile scrap of silk shouldn’t change anything. I know this. There’s a solid fabric barrier between my bare pussy and the seat. My body remains covered.
But somehow, the act has shifted my thinking. I’m now a temptress, attractive and strong, able to stimulate men with one flick of my skirt, and this turns me on. Moisture drips down my inner thighs, my musk scenting the air.
If this is another one of Nicolas’s tests, I hope I’ve passed because I doubt I’ll ever wear panties again. Being free feels too decadent, too right.
Did he know I’d react this way, that I’d want to repeat this experience? I swivel my hips, grinding into the chair. Is Nicolas the man I’ve been waiting for? The man who will give me security and commitment, a forever type of love, while allowing me to express my inner pervert, to watch and be watched?
Is Nicolas Friendly?
Lona LaMarre, the high-end escort living in the condo complex, seeded my mind with doubt this morning, hinting that she knew a special man hadn’t given me my new purse. She views me as a younger version of herself, seeming to find this idea sickly amusing.
But encouraging me along her same path would give her another rival. Lona is an intelligent woman, for all of her perversions. She wouldn’t intentionally create competition for herself.
No, Nicolas must be Friendly. I lock my purse in the desk drawer and concentrate on the party planning.
There isn’t much to do. I order cupcakes from the bakery down the street, coffee from the shop conveniently situated beside it, verify with kitchen supplies that there are enough paper napkins, plastic forks, and disposable cups. Susan has leftover decorations from the previous announcement.
I’m done. Everything’s under control. I smile. Mr. Peterson will be pleased. When he sees how smoothly the party is run, he’ll know he made the right decision, that I reflect the image he wants his department to have. He’ll know I deserved the full-time job.
“He still hasn’t told you, I see.” Dru plops her ass down on her padded seat, her skirt riding upwar
d, revealing more freckled skin.
Is she wearing panties? Deciding I’d rather not know, I don’t ask. Instead, I ignore her, not giving her the power to dampen my joy over tomorrow’s announcement.
Dru doesn’t appear to care. She chatters on her phone, talking about a horror film she watched last night, while I peruse my list of possible next tasks. My concentration is scattered, my willpower nonexistent, my thoughts returning to the mystery of Friendly.
Asking him who he is, assuming Friendly is a he, would be the simplest solution. I could reply to his previous text, possibly receive my answer within seconds.
But this solution is also the most risky. Friendly is using an alias, indicating that he doesn’t want to be identified. If I push him, asking him questions, he might stop issuing challenges and offering rewards.
I glance at the locked drawer containing my beautiful purse. Tomorrow’s reward could be even better . . . if even better is possible. No, I don’t want the challenges to stop, not yet, not until he suggests something I’m not comfortable with.
And if that happens, I’ll ignore the challenge and forgo the reward.
This might mean also forgoing a relationship with Nicolas, because I’m 80 percent certain he’s Friendly. Nicolas admits to deliberately testing me and isn’t the type of man to enter any relationship without knowing as much as he can about his partner. Watching my reactions to his sexual challenges would reveal a lot about me.
Perhaps too much. I stare down at my list of projects, unable to focus, my mind spinning, scenarios and possibilities tumbling through my brain. How far should I go? How much should I reveal? How naughty of a woman does Nicolas want me to be?
At five minutes after four o’clock, Mr. Peterson’s door opens. I look upward. He stands on the threshold, appearing more relaxed than he has all week. His gaze settles on my lazy coworker.
“I’m coming, Greg.” Dru smirks, acting not at all worried about the impending work-harder lecture she’s certain to receive. “And so will you,” she mutters as she passes my desk, her hips swaying, her skirt hiking higher with every step.
