‘You were in the interrogation room with him, and he had you handcuffed, and it all got a bit fruity.’
I pop up.
‘What happened?’
‘He was touching you … and he spanked you … and then he gave you head.’
The room starts to revolve a little, and I’m back there … cowering, ready and yearning, before my hero.
‘God, it was hot,’ goes on Sam, still moving uneasily against the pillows, his eyes closed, and licking his lips. ‘Really horny … we shall have to do that spanking thing one of these days, I think … Would you like that?’
‘Yeah, it’d be fun,’ I whisper, feeling wildly turned on again but, at the same time, slightly terrified.
‘Hey, don’t leave me high and dry, babe!’ Sam protests, reaching out towards me and pulling me back in the direction of his dick again.
I comply, and begin to suck him slowly and industriously in the lamplight, but the hairs on the back of my neck are prickling and crawling.
How can Sam have had the same dream as I did? How can he have seen what I dreamt he was seeing through the glass?
My mouth still full of my boyfriend, I can’t help glancing sideways towards the television, and I nearly do him a mischief when I see the screen all aglow again.
And there, bathed in the same blue-toned eldritch radiance as before, is The Detective. He’s sitting on the edge of his metal table, his suited arms crossed and a silky smirk on his broad handsome face.
What are you doing? You’re not real! You’re a dream! Sod off!
I close my eyes and apply myself to my delicious task, but, when I weaken a moment later, I sneak a sideways peek at the screen and find him still there and smirking …
And, as he reaches for his zip, his familiar eyes gleam red as coals.
The Distraction
HE’S BACK AGAIN. Distracting me. He’s not doing anything he shouldn’t be doing. Not at the moment. But just his presence in the room makes me flaky and unable to concentrate.
Why, oh why, does he have to work in our offce? Surely there’s a place for him elsewhere?
But it seems not. Apparently there isn’t a spare desk in the entire building other than one alongside mine here in Personnel.
So I’ve got the freelance IT guy who’s installing the company’s new computer system loitering in my personal space for the next six weeks. And it’s going to be a long six weeks if he insists on hanging around, flexing his muscles, and God knows what else, right under my nose.
It’s a conservative firm and a conservative office. Suits and ties for the guys, and smart skirts and blouses for us women. A good thing really for a forty-year-old bird like me. I’d look stupid in skimpy tops and jeans with a chunky figure like mine. OK, women my age do wear those kinds of outfits, but I like to preserve a sense of decorum, you know?
Not much decorum in me when I steal a glance at ‘him’, though. It’s hot today, muggy as hell, and he’s in a tight black T-shirt that clings to his pecs and abs and the muscles of his arms. I’m not a techie, so I’ve no idea what he’s doing, but whatever it is it looks suspiciously as if he’s posing at the same time.
Lounging back in his chair, he flaunts himself at me, sitting in a way that automatically draws attention to his crotch. Or is that just me who’s unable not to look at it? To add insult to injury, or just an additional, slavering layer to temptation, he’s a biker too. Which means tight leather bike jeans and heavy menacing boots with zips and buckles.
Oh, God.
Why am I letting these things get to me? He’s just not my type, on top of the fact that he appears to be nearly twenty years younger than me too. I just don’t do the cougar thing, but even so, I can’t stop imagining him taking off his clothes. Imagining it again.
He’s gym-toned and tight and he’s got gilded-satin skin. In my mind that extends to every bit of him. With the magnificent exception of his cock. My picture of that is of a ruddy monster, thick and veined and hot, hot, hot.
Pretending to focus on the top of a heap of personnel files – old ones, on paper, that are going to have to be manually inputted into the new system – I picture Edward, my lust object, getting naked.
Slowly, in an insultingly leisurely tease, he stands up, turns towards me, and starts tugging the hem of his dark T-shirt out of his waistband. Tug, tug, tug, he tweaks at it until finally it’s loose, and then in a smooth animal action, he peels it off.
Oh, his body is just beautiful. It’s a dream but I know it’s real too. Like heather honey his torso gleams and my fingers slide over the manila surface of the files, experiencing the mundane stuff as firm flesh and silky skin.
He stares at me, forcing me to look at him. But not just his body, his handsome face too. And handsome he is, with dark-blue eyes, a tender but masculine mouth and a rakish little goatee beard that matches thick brown hair brushed straight back from his brow.
Very deliberately, he touches his own nipple, drawing attention to the single piercing there, and immediately I wonder if he’s pierced anywhere else. His ocean-blue eyes glitter mischievously, as if he’s heard me.
‘Do you want me to show you it?’
His hands are on his heavy belt buckle, fingers tapping.
‘Jane, do you want me to show you it? The new login procedure?’
I blink like a fool. He’s actually leaning across in his seat, reaching to twist my keyboard towards him.
‘Um … yes … please. Is it sorted now?’
A waft of some deliciously unctuous male cologne floats my way, tickling my nostrils, filling my head. And that’s not all that floats. He’s been sweating, but it’s not bad. It’s raw. It makes my mouth water, and not just that. A million hormones fire and it’s not just the humidity that makes this place a jungle. We’re like beasts responding to ancient primitive signals.
Mate. Mate. Mate.
He gives me a slick little smile, the bastard, because he knows.
For five minutes or so, we do some kind of computer dance. I barely pay any attention. I suppose my subconscious is resisting the information – in order to provide me with reasons to seek him out again.
As he pushes his chair back on his castors, and says, ‘Now you do it’, he’s fingering his belt just the way he did in my daydream.
Oh, God!
That belt conjures all sorts of fantasies. Ones I’m not quite sure I understand. He might as well show me the computer manual. It’s all arcane mystery, but I know it makes sense to him, that it’s powerful.
I muck it up. I make a mess of the login and the damn thing locks me out again.
‘Naughty, naughty, Jane. You weren’t paying attention. I ought to smack your bottom for wasting my time.’
He laughs, every bit as naughty as he accuses me of being. But in those blue eyes, there’s a deadly serious threat.
I ought to tell him not to be so cheeky. That we don’t make jokes like that in this office. But I can’t. I’m paralysed. Rapt. Frozen, yet burning in a column of heat, seeing myself across those leather-clad knees, my bum bare.
‘Come on, Jane, let’s try it again,’ he says softly.
Perspiration slides between my breasts as I apply my fingers to the keyboard.
After lunch, it’s even hotter.
I managed to get logged in earlier and, satisfied, Edward moved on to another terminal. I felt bereft, abandoned, insulted. Then I remembered that all the sexy stuff was purely in my mind and he probably thinks I’m just a silly old uptight middle-aged bitch.
He’s back now, though, working at the desk next to mine. Not looking my way, his face placid and calm and untroubled, while I’m going crazy inside, my body wanting … wanting something.
Do I want him to fuck me?
Christ almighty, I shock myself even thinking the word, but I’m not quite sure that’s exactly what I want.
Edward does his clever things with his keyboard and mouse. He talks on his mobile to people in other parts of the building. He hooks up
a drive of some kind, loads more software.
He has absolutely no interest in me, and I’m just being stupid thinking he might ever have had any.
Boink!
I get an email.
Not so unusual, but the back of my neck prickles for some reason. It has an attachment. Again, not usual. People send me documents and forms all the time, and everything’s scanned and safe, thanks to Edward having beefed up the system’s security.
Still prickling, I open the mail … and nearly knock my bottle of water off the end of the desk.
It’s an image. Made of pixels this time, not a pattern created by the deluded neurones of my sex-addled brain.
Just what I’ve been imagining since this morning though.
In a softly lit room, a nude woman is sprawled across the knee of a man in leather jeans. She’s face down and, even though it’s all in sepia, you can see that the bare rounded moons of her bottom are reddened. His face is in shadow, and his hand’s on her back, fingers curved, as if he’s stroking and calming her.
The buckle on his belt is an exact match for the one holding up Edward’s jeans.
I glance to one side.
No response. Not a twitch. Not a smirk. Total calm and serenity. His finger curves on the dome of the mouse, as if he’s stroking and calming it.
I wish someone would calm me!
I snap the email closed but its contents are seared on my brain. I have to get out of here, away from him. He’s the devil.
There’s a small office at the far end of the main room. It’s for interviews, privacy. Sometimes, when one of us is doing a detailed job of some kind, we go in there and work alone, in peace and silence.
‘I need to go through these,’ I announce to the room in general and nobody in particular. ‘It’s cooler in the little room … I think I’ll go through them in there.’
After sweeping up my water bottle, my pen and a random selection of files that I’ve already processed, I stride up to the end of the room, heading for sanctuary.
In the little office, the air conditioning hums loudly, but works a treat. It is cool. I switch on the terminal there, one that Edward has already hooked up, but I don’t log in. I’m not here to work.
How in God’s name did he know what buttons to press with me? I don’t even know myself …
Who was the woman?
When did he spank her? Where? For how long?
Did they fuck afterwards? Did he touch her? Did she suck him, caress his cock with her lips and tongue?
I wish I could open my email from here. I want to see that image again, assure myself it’s him.
But of course I can.
Making no errors this time, I key in my password and finesse on into the system.
I open the file again and the sight that greets my eyes again makes my sex ripple.
God, that’s never happened before.
Spontaneous desire.
Physical response with no stimuli but vision and imagination. I clench the muscles of my pussy and my anus, imagining them exposed to him, across his knee, my bottom cheeks jumping from the spasm.
I slump back in my chair, my fingers tingling with energy. They want to stray to my crotch, but I’m trying to retain some semblance of control. I don’t do things like this! I’m a grown-up, in command of myself. Responsible and all that.
Yet here I am, horny as a teenager, desperate to play with myself because a hot young man sent me a picture just as hot.
I spread my legs, but I’m not going to touch myself.
I shuffle down, pressing myself against the chair, but I’m not going to touch myself.
I place my hand on the stretched fabric of my skirt, over my thigh. But I’m not going to touch myself.
Feeling my heart turn over strangely, I cup my crotch … and the door to the little room swings slowly open.
Every muscle in my body leaps, including the ones that are connected to my clit, but as Edward slides into the room, through the narrow gap of the partially open door, he presses his fingers to his lips in a ‘shush’, and I subside back into the chair, completely stilled by him.
The door snicks shut, then snicks again as he turns the lock. There’s only one window, but it’s obscured by a flipped-down blind.
We’re alone, enclosed, locked in, wrapped in silence but for the hum of the air conditioning.
Edward glances at my crotch where, I realise to my astonishment, my hand still rests. I should snatch it away, but I can’t. It’s as if his eyes have the power to paralyse me … or compel movement. Slowly, slowly, he licks his firm, sculpted lips.
‘So this is what people do in this little room. I’ve been wondering about it since I arrived here.’
I open my mouth, but I can’t speak. Instead, to my horror, my fingers start to grip, move, clasping my pussy through my skirt.
He laughs, and it’s a quiet, sweet, strangely wise sound. I count the years again, those twenty or so between me and him, but he seems ancient in wisdom and experience. Like a young god, tall and strong and beautiful, and imbued with esoteric knowledge and exotic preferences.
‘I would say you surprise me, Jane. But somehow, you don’t. I knew immediately you were a wicked woman beneath that straight, businesslike surface.’
Glancing at the screen, he raises his dark eyebrows.
‘Do you like that? I suspect you do.’ In a swift, darting movement, he pulls a straight-backed chair from the corner of the room and sets it opposite to me, with the desk and the computer to one side of us. He sinks onto it, all grace, setting his booted feet four-square on the carpet, his thighs slightly parted, gleaming in their leather.
The question loosens my tongue, gives me permission to speak.
‘I don’t know. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.’
Which is a lie, I now realise. I’ve seen films with hints of this in them. Documentaries. I’ve watched them, thinking What’s wrong with these people!, and all the while I’ve been ignoring what’s going on in my pussy.
Those beautiful midnight-blue eyes darken.
‘I think you’re fibbing to me, Jane. Why do you do that? Don’t you realise that dishonesty is wicked?’ His chin comes up, as if in triumph. He’s brought the conversation around to exactly the place he wants it to be. With me cast as the wicked, misbehaving bad girl. Or bad woman, more like.
How can I let this happen?
How can I not?
‘Do you want me to help you understand?’ His voice is low, mellow as honey. It’s as if he’s controlling me – completely – with dulcet kindness.
I nod my head, unable to speak again. All of a sudden I want to weep. It’s a kind of relief. An acceptance.
‘Touch yourself, Jane. Through your skirt. Just squeeze a bit.’
I obey him, burning up, gasping aloud as my clasping fingers knock my clit. It’s like a kind of sweet electricity stimulating a naked bundle of pleasure receptors. The tiny organ jumps, almost the way it does when I come. But it’s not that yet, not quite. I’m very close though.
Just from his voice, and a squeeze, and a lot of thoughts.
‘How does that feel? Are you ready to come?’
‘Yes.’
I flex my fingers to grab again, work my clit, force the issue.
‘Uh-oh … no, not yet. Not until I say so.’ He rises from his chair and looms over me. I wish he’d give me permission to grovel at his feet and kiss his boots. Either that or just to keep working myself until I have an orgasm. ‘We’ve a way to go yet, Jane. A long, long way.’
Somewhere in the corner of my mind, I wonder what my colleagues outside must be thinking. Me, in the little room, with the technical whizz-kid who wears leather and has the body of a film star. I’m supposed to have authority, keep people in order, but I’m the one who’s being kept in order now.
The air in the room is cool, because of the conditioning, but it feels as thick as pudding on my skin. It presses down, like a blanket of sex, moist and hot. Or is that j
ust me?
I’m moist and hot between my legs. I’m like a pond. My panties are saturated.
As I shift in my chair, imagining I can hear myself squelch, Edward looks down on me, reaches out and touches my hot cheek. His fingers feel cool, gentle yet unyielding. Just like the rest of him, I suppose, feeling dreamy yet wildly, distractedly excited.
‘Are you wet, Jane? Is that why you’re wriggling?’
My heart thuds, my knickers get wetter. My face burns hotter, so hot I’m surprised he doesn’t flinch, singed. But he just slides his fingertips under my chin, making me face him, forbidding me to hide my embarrassment. My mouth is so dry that my tongue cleaves to the roof of it.
But still those blue eyes command me. And his voice too.
‘Jane, don’t be stubborn. Are you wet?’ His voice is still low and mild. He doesn’t need to shout. He just has to be.
‘Yes,’ I admit, wondering how all this can have happened. Not half an hour ago, I was annoyed with him. Wishing him out of our office and my life. Yes, I thought he was attractive in his blatant, aggravating way, but in the grand scheme of things, that didn’t seem important.
But now … now … I adore him.
It doesn’t make sense.
‘There, was that so hard to admit?’
What, the fact that I’m wet, or the fact that I’ve gradually, without my really knowing, become obsessed with this confident, beautiful man?
‘Not really.’
‘So what shall we do about it?’ He’s still touching me, the tips of his fingers against my face. I lean in to the contact and it’s as if it’s a signal. His hand slides down my face, my jaw, my throat … and dips to cup my breast through the fabric of my blouse.
‘Ah!’
I can’t contain myself when he strums my nipple as if it’s his sovereign property.
‘You’re a horny, beautiful woman, Jane. You make me want to do things to you, you really do.’
He strokes and strokes, then closes his thumb and finger over the tip of my breasts and squeezes quite hard.
I groan aloud, wriggle again in my seat, pressing on my clit with my clenched hand. When my pussy flutters, I toss my head, almost beside myself on a high wave of mixed sensations. Pleasure, pain, frustration, confusion … sweet longing.
The Red Collection Page 13
