by John Argus
Zoe let her hand brush lightly against her skirt again, lowering it a little more, and began to feel somewhat more at ease.
‘How are you getting along with Ms Beacher, Quincanon?’ he asked abruptly, his austerity back in place.
She looked at him, a little startled by the unexpectedness of the question. ‘Um, quite well, I suppose.’
‘A very demanding woman, Beacher,’ he pronounced. ‘A stern woman.’
‘Yes, I suppose she is,’ Zoe concurred.
‘Sharp as a tack, though, and quite efficient, brooks no argument and won’t tolerate failure. Quite the disciplinarian. She’s sent a number of girls packing the past few years for not meeting her high standards. I suppose that’s all to the good in the PMO. After all, we can only have the best. You aren’t having any difficulties with her, are you?’
‘Oh, no,’ Zoe lied hurriedly. ‘As you say, she’s very… efficient.’
He nodded with apparent satisfaction.
As it happened, one of the first people they encountered upon their return to work was the aforementioned Ms Beacher, who cast a reproachful glare at Zoe and pursed her lips disapprovingly.
The young woman licked her own lips anxiously, and looked towards Mr Erasmus, but at that moment he turned off into the men’s room, leaving her alone.
‘Miss Quincanon,’ the woman said between clenched teeth.
‘Yes, Ms Beacher?’
‘You will come with me at once.’ She turned and strode away, leaving Zoe with little alternative but to follow, her heels clicking rapidly on the marble floor as she tried to keep up with the taller woman. They turned a corner, and the sound of their heels became muted by the carpeting as they neared the supervisor’s office.
Beacher brusquely gestured Zoe inside, and then followed her in, closing the door behind them. ‘Where on earth have you been?’ she demanded without preliminary.
‘I – I was running an errand for Mr Erasmus.’
‘You did not arrive for work this morning,’ Beacher stated coolly, now ensconced behind her desk.
‘No, you see, he called me at home last night and—’
‘He what?’
‘He called me at home last night,’ Zoe confirmed, ‘and asked me to pick something up for him at the post office on my way to work this morning.’
‘Why ever would he do that?’
‘I have no idea, Ms Beacher.’
‘And how is it you came to be missing the better part of the morning and arrived back in his company?’
Zoe explained as best she could, but it was clear Ms Beacher’s suspicions regarding the man’s intentions were only reinforced by the tale.
‘I will speak with Mr Erasmus,’ she said, ‘as I speak now to you, Quincanon. I do not approve of office relationships, particularly between junior and senior members of the staff.’
‘But, Ms Beacher, I—’
‘Silence when I’m speaking!’ There was an explosive crack as she brought her palm down angrily on the desktop, making poor Zoe visibly flinch. ‘I expect you to display only the highest of moral behaviour whilst working for the PMO, and if I find I am disappointed in that expectation, I will inform your parents and you will be seeking employment elsewhere. Is that understood?’
‘But—’
‘Is that understood?’
‘Yes, Ms Beacher,’ Zoe sighed unhappily.
‘Good.’ Gradually the woman looked appeased, for the time being. ‘Now, you have expense claims to process. You will go and do so at once.’
Zoe withdrew, heaving another sigh, this one of relief, once she was back out in the corridor. Ms Beacher was very much like some of the stricter governesses and matrons at school – odious, stern, disapproving, and not in the least interested in explanations, no matter how truthful they may be. And Zoe had learned that the only way to deal with women like her was to agree with everything they said.
She returned to her desk, and with that latest ticking-off fresh in her mind, smiled meekly at Normand Miller, who seemed pleased to see her.
Jeez, but I want to fuck her! Normand Miller thought, as the gorgeous Zoe Quincanon appeared and headed back to her desk with a sensuality of movement he was sure she was totally unaware of possessing.
She was carrying her blazer, and wore a thin grey turtleneck sweater that served to accent the soft pale skin of her beautiful young face, and frame it even more enticingly within the lush silky hair surrounding it. The soft material clung to her shapely body and emphasised her firm breasts and slender waist. He could almost, as she walked towards him, peel away the clothes in his mind and see her naked as she moved, her breasts jiggling ever so slightly in time with her elegant strides.
‘Oh no, more expenses,’ she said plaintively upon catching sight of her in tray.
‘The government moves on a sea of paperwork,’ he told her. ‘You’ll have to do your part to keep it afloat.’
She pouted, sat down, and switched on her computer.
‘What is it you intend with the Quincanon girl?’
Steven Erasmus looked up from his desk, and smiled a broad, wolfish smile at Ms Beacher. ‘I’m sure you can imagine,’ he said smoothly.
The woman folded her arms across her chest and glared down at him. ‘She’s far too young, even for a predatory fraud like you,’ she snapped disdainfully.
‘Well I must say she’s remarkably well developed for one you consider so young,’ he countered sarcastically. ‘But the fact is, dear lady, she’s twenty years old.’
‘I know you like them innocent, Steven, but isn’t this carrying it a bit too far?’ Ms Beacher argued futilely.
‘Oh, I don’t think so. She’s utterly delightful, don’t you agree?’
The woman ignored his little dig. ‘You’ll never get anywhere with her. She’s been raised practically as a nun.’
‘Oh, on the contrary, my dear lady,’ Erasmus goaded smugly. ‘Already I’ve observed quite an interest on her part.’
‘Is that so?’ she sniffed doubtfully.
‘Yes, it is so. You have to understand what motivates people, Veronica. Young Zoe Quincanon has urges and needs like any other female, but she’s horribly repressed due to those very institutions of which you speak.’
‘And you intend to help the poor girl, I take it?’
‘Guilt and repression are not healthy,’ he stated sagely. ‘Clearly she’s in need of help, and I would not be fulfilling my responsibilities if I offered her none.’
‘And have you considered, if you do manage to seduce – sorry, help – the poor needy girl, she’ll probably throw herself at the feet of the nearest Bishop and confess all,’ the woman warned.
‘I don’t think religion is the source of her repression, but I take your meaning,’ Erasmus acknowledged. ‘Therefore I shall ensure that she is absolved of all guilt for anything that takes place between us.’
‘And how do you imagine you can do that?’
Erasmus’s lingering smile deepened. ‘Do you recall our little conversation some months ago, about what psychological and emotional traits drive people into particular sexual fetishes and behaviours?’ he asked.
Beacher nodded. ‘Yes, what of it?’
‘Young Quincanon is a classic masochist in sexual terms, that’s what.’
She let out a bark of derisive laughter. ‘You’re joking.’
‘Not at all, think about it. Sex will leave her wracked by guilt, but wrap her in chains and take a crop to her bottom, and she’ll be absolved.’
‘What utter nonsense,’ Beacher snorted, unconvincingly.
‘You know it’s not, Veronica. Guilt over their sexual behaviour is what motivates many women towards that particular kink. Only when bound and helpless can they experience true pleasure, for without a choice, or a
t least pretending that’s the case, they can cast aside all guilt and let their repressed sensual nature blossom.’
‘And do you think that naïve girl is going to let you tie her spread-eagled to a bed and let you have your salacious way with her?’ Beacher challenged incredulously.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I think she’ll do exactly that,’ Steven Erasmus stated with utter conviction. ‘I think the moment she feels the rope tighten around her wrists, and she thinks she’s being forced to experience what I can do to her, she’ll be begging for more.’
‘Well, Steven, you don’t think much of yourself, do you?’ Her crooked smile was ugly.
‘I know people. Quincanon wants to be a naughty girl but hasn’t the courage, so we will give her a way around those ghastly inhibitions her parents and her schools forced upon her.’
‘We?’ Beacher’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘You’re going to help me.’
‘I’m certainly not going to help you.’
‘Of course you are.’
‘And why would I?’
‘Ah well, let’s discuss the price…’
Zoe stared at the expense statement, receipts and notes spread out before her, trying to understand why the claim disagreed with the computer to the tune of ten pence. There had been a time when she would have shrugged aside such an insignificant difference, but she had quickly come to learn that absolutely no discrepancies would be acceptable to Ms Beacher, and that the claim would be returned if the statement did not match it precisely.
For some reason she jumped a little when the phone on her desk suddenly rang. ‘Zoe Quincanon,’ she answered quickly, trying to sound professional.
‘Come to my office, Quincanon, and bring your notes from this morning,’ Mr Erasmus curtly ordered.
He hung up before she could respond, and she was left staring at the receiver in consternation. She laid it gently back on its cradle, and then looked nervously about for Ms Beacher. She had no wish to be seen with Mr Erasmus again today, and indeed she felt rather nervous about the prospect of once again being alone with the man. Yet the summons could not be ignored.
She stood up, lifted her blazer off the back of her chair and slipped it on, wanting to be as fully dressed as possible in his presence. She picked up the notes, and then walked uncertainly along the corridor, hoping to run into Ms Beacher first and explain her summons so the woman could either approve, or order her to return to her desk. Unfortunately, even though she dawdled a little, her supervisor did not make an appearance, and she had little choice but to continue on to Mr Erasmus’s office and knock diffidently upon his polished door.
‘Come in,’ he called.
She would not, absolutely would not under any circumstances, sit on his lap this time, she told herself firmly as she grasped the handle and entered.
‘Close the door,’ he commanded.
She obeyed at once, and moved to stand before his splendid desk, noting as she did so that all the chairs in his office were still occupied by bundles of files and papers.
‘Come around here, Quincanon,’ he said imperiously. ‘I need to see your notes from our little visit.’
‘Yes, Mr Erasmus,’ she said in as proper a tone as she could manage. ‘Ms Beacher was unhappy that I went with you this morning, though,’ she added.
‘Oh? Well, don’t worry about her. She’s a frightful woman, but probably not dangerous.’ He smiled in a whimsical fashion, and Zoe could not help but return it. ‘Now let’s see those.’ He reached for the sheets of paper clutched in her hand as he glanced around. ‘Well, I suppose you can sit on my lap again,’ he added, all chairs except his taken, as Zoe had previously noted.
‘I don’t think Ms Beacher would approve of that, sir,’ she pointed out.
‘Forget her,’ he said dismissively. ‘She has a nasty, suspicious mind.’
‘I just…’ Zoe summoned all her courage, ‘I just don’t think it proper, Mr Erasmus, and if someone came in, they might think… well, who knows what they might think?’
He heaved a long-suffering sigh, looked terribly disappointed with her pedantic attitude, and shook his head. ‘Oh, very well… no, don’t disturb those piles, for goodness sakes. I’ve gone to considerable trouble to sort everything just so. If you insist upon behaving like a frightened little mouse just, well…’ He looked around again, and then patted his desk. ‘Just sit here.’
‘On your desk, sir?’ she gasped.
‘Yes, good solid English oak.’ He rose abruptly, grasped her arms gently but firmly, and manoeuvred her round a little and back against the old and stout piece of furniture.
She gasped as he lifted her effortlessly, perched her on the edge, and then resumed his seat.
‘Now then, I need you to write a letter to one of those fellows we spoke to,’ he said, sifting through her notes. ‘Hmm, I can’t read any of these,’ he complained.
‘I had to write terribly quickly,’ she explained, ‘and I was standing up with nothing to lean on, and—’
‘Yes, yes, find Charles Hudson,’ he thrust the papers at her impatiently, ‘and read what you have about him.’
She obediently took her scribbled annotations from him and sorted through them, at times finding it difficult to read her own writing. Finally, and with a little sigh of relief, she located the man in question. ‘Ah, yes, he built a factory in Bristol,’ she announced triumphantly.
‘You mean he wanted a government loan to build a factory in Bristol,’ he corrected her.
She looked at her notes again. ‘He didn’t say that,’ she contradicted doubtfully.
‘Of course he did, he just didn’t say it in that way. Read me his exact words so I can see what to reply.’
‘Well, um, I don’t have his exact words,’ she told him apologetically, feeling extremely awkward. ‘I mean, I thought I was just there to keep track of names and what you talked about in sort of general terms…’
Her voice faded away, but before she had finished he started to rub his eyes wearily, heaved a heavy sigh, shook his head with evident exasperation, and once again she felt she had disappointed him greatly. He looked tired, and she wished she could do something to make him feel better.
‘Just read what you have,’ he said jadedly.
‘Well, sir, he spoke of the high cost of construction,’ she started, trying to sound bright for him, ‘the high unemployment rate, and that you only lost that seat by five hundred votes.’
He chuckled. ‘And you don’t see what he’s suggesting there?’
‘Well, not really,’ Zoe admitted.
‘He wants an interest-free loan, or government grants, to pay for the construction, and hints that the subsequent operation would reduce unemployment, put money into the local economy, and give us something to crow about come next election time.’
‘Oh,’ she said, carefully re-examining the words on the paper, still unable to see where that interpretation of the conversation came from.
‘People never come right out and say what they really want, my dear,’ he told her, patting her leg lightly.
She felt a sudden rush of mingled excitement and alarm at the touch, but tried to show nothing at all. Her legs were coyly together, for her position on the edge of the desk meant that Mr Erasmus could easily have seen right up her skirt otherwise.
‘You’re such a delightfully innocent girl,’ he mused, his hand remaining where it lay.
‘I’m not an innocent girl,’ she protested indignantly.
‘No, no of course you’re not,’ he apologised, as his hand moved a little higher and eased beneath the hem of her skirt yet again. ‘I meant only that you are naïve to the ways of the world and possess a refreshingly innocent charm. It’s a compliment, believe me.’
Zoe was not at all sure t
hat was better; she wanted to be seen as mature and sophisticated, not innocent and naïve. And yet she wanted to leap off the desk and stamp her foot as his fingers moved in to caress her inner thigh, and then crept even higher.
‘What do you think?’ he asked. ‘Should we give him grants and loans?’
‘What do I think?’ she squeaked. ‘I mean, I couldn’t even guess!’
‘But you’re an intelligent young woman.’
‘But… well… I…’ It was nigh on impossible for Zoe to think straight with his hand where it was. As much as she wanted to deny the truth of the matter, his fingers were persistently pressing along the insides of her thighs, and his thumb was where they pressed together as if he wanted her to ease them apart – to grant him access to where she shouldn’t. She was desperately reluctant to yield to his unspoken demand, and yet felt oddly reluctant to disappoint him as well. Then, her mind reeling, she was surprised to see him stand up and loom over her, so she had to lean back slightly to meet his eyes.
‘Do give me your opinion, Zoe,’ he coaxed. ‘On the one hand, we have government taxes entrusted to us by the voters. And on the other hand, we have poor unemployed people who are living unhappily, perhaps nearing poverty. Think of what the decision we make today could mean to them. Instantly there would be hundreds of jobs. In houses all across Bristol, people would be getting phone calls to come to work.’
‘Well…’ so tense was the atmosphere between them Zoe could barely speak, ‘that’s quite a responsibility—’
‘I will leave it up to you to decide.’
‘Me?’ She gawped at him, all thought of his roaming hand temporarily forgotten.
‘Yes, you – upon your word we will direct this money into Hudson’s factory, or not. Remember also that he’s a very wealthy man. He can afford to build his own factories.’
‘But… but…’ The enormity of the decision terrified her.
‘Of course, he’s a greedy sot, which is why he wants us to pay for it. He might not build there, otherwise. His whole reason for building in an area like that is to interest us in helping out financially.’
