by Mimi Strong
Grace shook her head. “Mr. Thorne cannot see you. Absolutely not. I'll try to keep him out of the house, so we don't have to play around with locked doors, but the arrangement still stands.”
I didn't question her, just nodded my head. Rich people were weird. It was best to act like whatever weird thing they wanted was the most reasonable thing in the world.
“Same time?” I asked.
“Earlier, say nine. And come to the side door,” she said. “And you might want to bring a lunch. The cook has the day off, and you're looking a little pale. I wouldn't want this little job to take too much of a pounding on you.”
“No, that would be terrible,” I said.
She held the door open and I walked out past her. She took a deep sniff as I walked by.
She showed me out through the side door, which was a shame, because I would have liked to have seen the look on Grace's face when I passed over the shining tile floor and she noticed I didn't have any panties on. They were in my purse. Again.
You need to get your act together, I told myself.
Then I thought about the roll of cash, and I no longer had a care in the world.
On the drive home, I found myself singing that song he'd been singing. I didn't know the words, but the memory was stuck in my head.
When I got home, I had a quick bite to eat, then propped myself up in bed with my laptop.
Mr. Thorne couldn't see me, but I could see him—or his photo, at the very least.
I tried every search I could think of, but the last name was too common, and even combined with the city name, I still got too many search results. I found nothing in combination with the address, but that was normal. The rich liked their privacy.
I scoured the many Mr. Thorne photos for suits, comparing the ones online to what I'd seen in the closet. As I looked, I rubbed my legs together. Again? My gal wanted to go again? What, was I turning into a guy? I'd just gotten off, not hours before.
After zooming in on a photo of a Mr. Thorne in a dark blue suit, I propped the laptop up on a pillow and opened my Drawer of Delight. I selected the one that had a Mr. Thorne quality, sleek and tasteful, and got to work, taking my time.
As I moved the vibrator's settings between oh-yeah and OHMYGOD, I pictured a man in an expensive suit doing all sorts of things to me. Things I'd never done before: spanking, tricky positions, and even sex in public. I'd settled on a nice image of us in an underground parking lot, me gently biting the shoulder of a man whose face I'd not yet seen. The vibrator was on its lowest setting when I came, hard and fast, crying out in surprise.
I clapped my hand over my mouth. The window to my bedroom was open, and people were walking by outside, talking. Someone asked their companion, “What was that? Did you hear people having sex? I think it came from up there.”
I pulled one of my pillows over my face and giggled like mad.
I suddenly stopped laughing. Had I made all those loud noises earlier today, in the closet? He must have heard me. Damnit.
All the more reason to be extra careful the next day, careful not to be seen, and even more careful not to be heard. And yet, I hoped he'd noticed the scent in his walk-in closet. I didn't know if Grace would be taking credit for the work or if he'd know someone else had been touching his things, folding his boxers and smelling his suits. I hoped he'd pulled the blue shirt from the laundry and smell me on it, then go mad with desire for me.
With that thought, I grabbed my vibrator from the bed next to me and dialed it up to OHMYGOD.
Part 2: The Office Chair
Mr. Thorne had a handsome chair. As I gazed at the swivel chair with the ergonomic, space-age-fabric back—the type of specialized Euro office equipment that probably costs two grand—I imagined the handsome buns that sat there. Did he use the chair first thing in the morning to check on his stocks? Perhaps while wearing only his boxers?
I ran my fingers along the armrests and fantasized about doing a sexy little striptease for Mr. Thorne, culminating in a lap dance. I'd never given a lap dance before—I'm an organizer, not a stripper—but something told me I'd enjoy the act. Perhaps it was my damp panties. Blue ones that day, with the matching bra. I'm not normally such a stickler for matching things up, I just grab whatever's freshly laundered, but the Thorne mansion was bringing out my best and worst behavior—best because of the matching, and worst because I kept rubbing my mound on the edge of Mr. Thorne's desk. Now I was imagining him spanking my butt, and punishing me for snooping around in his papers when I was supposed to be tidying.
All the good stuff was locked away in a filing cabinet, anyway. Phooey.
Grace had made sure of that before she left me alone to organize Mr. Thorne's office. I had little to do, mainly making tidy stacks and folders for piles of magazine clippings and newspaper articles. From what I could tell so far, Mr. Thorne was a visual man. That meant he liked to look at breasts in a nice bra. He also preferred to have his magazine clippings somewhere he could see them at a glance, not tucked away in a drawer. For a man like that, stacking file organizers and those pockets you attach to the wall work best, preferably clear lucite ones.
Lucky for Mr. Thorne, I knew just where to buy such things, and I got a discount. I'd mark up the materials and get a little profit on them as well. I'd be making some good money from this job, and even more if I accomplished the seemingly-simple task of keeping from being seen.
I leaned across the thick, oak desk that was positioned to look at the garden view out the picture window. I used my little measuring tape to measure the width of the desk, and then I thought about using it to measure the width of other things—male things. This gave me a giggle, and I leaned harder onto the desk. I relaxed my neck and rested my face on the cool surface, pressing my right cheek against the wood while imagining a firm hand spanking my bottom for being so naughty.
As I was sprawled out this way, I heard a man's voice, outside the door. The door wasn't locked, because Grace had said Mr. Thorne was out golfing and not due home for hours.
Grace was talking to him, very loud, telling him not to go into his office because … she thought she saw a mouse in there. A mouse! I glanced around.
“Use the laptop in the kitchen,” she pleaded.
“Don't be ridiculous. A mouse? How would it have gotten in here?”
“Through the door?” she said. “I think I saw one come in when the groceries were being delivered. A little white one.”
Oh, Grace, I thought, you're not the world's greatest liar, are you?
Mr. Thorne laughed at the idea of being afraid of a mouse. The door opened. He came into the room.
He paused, and I was sure he saw me, crouched in the shadow underneath the thick wood desk, like a mouse in a cave.
“I don't see a mouse,” he called back to Grace.
She sounded flustered as she prattled on about mice and their habits.
He dismissed her, closed the door, and crossed the room. I caught a glimpse of golf shoes, and a whiff of his cologne.
“No mouse,” he said to himself. “But I do smell pussy.” I couldn't see his face, but I imagined him shaking his head as he said, “Must be my imagination.”
I bit my lip and breathed in deeply, trying to filter the smell of myself through my nostrils, like some human air freshener, which was ridiculous, but when you're hiding under a billionaire's desk and a big roll of cash is on the line, you do what you have to do.
“Mousey, mousey, mousey,” he said, and he pulled the chair away from in front of me. “Pussy, pussy, pussycat?”
My breath caught in my throat.
He sat down on the chair, his legs wide, and his crotch facing me.
I gulped, a little too loud, I feared.
He had quite the package, from the look of it. I licked my lips as the blood rushed to my own crotch area.
He was so close to me, and yet, I couldn't do anything. I wondered what he would do if I reached out and gently unfastened that expensive-looking belt buckle.
As if my own feverish imagination was making my thoughts reality, his own hand unfastened his belt. He had thick fingers, young-looking, with shiny nails, as though they'd been buffed. Of course he'd have a manicure, I thought. A guy that rich probably had four girls work on him at once to save time, one for each hand and foot. Maybe he had a fifth girl too, for other buffing needs.
I licked my lips again and swallowed hard, because my mouth was watering.
The bulge in his pants was moving, growing larger, taller.
He groaned and adjusted himself, the tip of it emerging above the edge of his waistband.
Come on, baby, just undo that zipper, I coaxed him with my mind.
“Hello,” he said.
My heart nearly skipped a beat. He knew I was there! I opened my mouth to answer him, but my vocal chords locked, and thank goodness, because he wasn't talking to me, as it turned out.
“No preference,” he said, apparently on the phone. “Oh, unless Candy's there. Is Candy there? Nice. Yes, I'll hold.”
One of his hands slipped into his pants while the other one undid the fastener and folded down the opening. He sighed as he brought out his equipment. He shifted his weight and slid his pants partly down to let everything out.
He moved a little closer to the desk, his foot nearly touching my knee. I could smell the musk coming from between his legs, and it excited me. He'd worked up a little fresh sweat on the sunny golf course, and it smelled good. It smelled like a man. I'd been with some boys lately, but not with a man. Not since ...
Mr. Thorne kicked off his golf shoes, and one of them struck me softly on the shin, but he didn't notice. I pushed the lovely shoe a few inches away from me. They looked custom-made, just like so many of the items in his walk-in closet.
I looked at his crumpled pants and thought, Shame on you, Mr. Thorne, you ought to hang those up, or they'll wrinkle.
He pushed the chair back and stood, then whipped down the pants, crossed the room, and and lay them across the sofa.
I got a nice look at his bare bottom, round and muscular, and legs like tree trunks. As he leaned over, his thigh muscles bulged. When he turned back again, the sight changed from those gorgeous buttocks to that proud soldier of his, perfect and sturdy and begging to be grabbed onto. I could grab it like a handle, I thought. I imagined his perfect penis would fit so nicely in my hand, my mouth, anywhere he wanted to stick it.
I nearly came crawling out from my cave under the desk, begging to put it in my watering mouth, or my other spot, but I didn't. The thought of the bonus from Grace, and my mortgage payment, kept me glued to my spot.
He returned to the chair and sat comfortably, his gleaming rod in profile to me, so velvety and hot-looking, and begging to be stroked.
“Hi Candy,” he said, and I swear it got even bigger, right in front of my eyes.
I stuck my thumb in my mouth and started sucking.
“My golf game didn't go so great,” he said into his phone. “One of my business colleagues is still sore from a deal I took away from his company, and he kicked my ball when nobody was looking.”
I sucked my thumb harder, hoping to sooth the ache in my groin. Carefully, I rearranged my position under the desk so I could get my other hand between my thighs and up my skirt.
He laughed, that deep voice of his sounding more friendly than authoritative. “No, not those balls. My golf ball. Oh, Candy, you're a silly girl. You know I have a weak spot for silly girls. Especially when they're smart, like I know you are, but they play dumb. You know that makes me so hard.”
And he wasn't lying. His lovely soldier was getting bigger and bigger, and he'd only just started stroking it, moving his hand up and down like he was warming up an expensive musical instrument.
“Candy, I want you to get on your knees. I can smell you. I can smell your pussy, right through this phone. God! How are you doing that? It's like you're in the room with me, with your little pocket.”
He stroked some more, faster, then slower. I rubbed a circle around my clit, wider and wider, then narrowing in, but pulling away before I made myself see stars. I could take myself to the edge, but I didn't dare go over, because I'd probably cry out and moan with pleasure, betraying my hiding spot and forfeiting the bonus.
“Is your little pocket wet?” he asked her. Under the desk, I nodded my head. Uh-huh. My pocket was wetter than ever. My pocket was moist and ready for anything.
“I'm putting the tip in. Open wide, pull your legs apart for me. How's that? Is it making you tingly all over? Moan for me, girl. Yeah. Again. Oh come on, Candy, I'm not going to give it to you unless you want it. Make me believe you want it. I'm pulling the tip back out.”
His hand slowed and then stopped, and he reached down and tugged at the skin on his balls briefly, the head turning purple and straining against his tugs.
“That's my girl,” he said. “I like it when you whimper. You know, nothing in this world makes me happier than to satisfy your needs. I closed a billion dollar deal today, and all I could think about was how it wasn't as good as the sound of some sweet girl, squirming on the end of my cock.”
Him saying that word gave me a little jolt of electricity. I didn't love the word, but I didn't mind it coming from him. He said it so proudly. I mouthed the word silently under the desk just as my hand circled in on the target spot and sent shivers of pre-orgasm pleasure through my body.
I must not!
I sucked my thumb harder. I could go over the edge, as long as I didn't make a sound. I just had to be careful.
Mr. Thorne had stopped talking and was just listening to whatever Candy was saying on the other end of the line. His hand started to shake, getting nervous and excited with anticipation, just like my hand was.
He gripped it tighter around the base and jerked in his chair.
I imagined that the little thumb in my mouth was actually him, and I dug my fingers against my moist crotch as I pressed down hard on my nub, squeezing myself in my own hand, and sending myself over the edge, all the way over.
I felt the tingles all the way from the top of my scalp to the tips of my toes, the electricity circling my fiery nipples and even my back door, with delicious pleasure.
My thumb quivered with ecstasy inside my mouth.
“That was different,” Mr. Thorne said, sounding more authoritative suddenly.
His solder lay spent, resting on his thigh like a forgotten toy.
“Have a good day,” he said, his voice suddenly all business.
Under his desk, mere feet away from his naked lower half, I quivered with the final aftershocks of my deep, satisfying orgasm.
Have a good day, indeed.
I knew he'd ended the phone call, because his other hand came down to rest on his thigh, the phone's screen back to black.
“So weird,” he mused to himself. “I swear I can smell pussy.”
He pulled some tissues from the box on his desk to tidy up, then stood, and put his boxer shorts and dress pants on again.
There was a mini-fridge concealed behind a wood panel, and he opened the door and stared at the contents for a long time.
I'd love a lemonade, I thought. Or a beer. I haven't had a beer in ages, but I'd love one right now. Nothing like a refreshing beer right after a life-affirming orgasm.
He took out a light beer and cracked it open.
He crossed the room back toward me, and I held my breath and pulled back as far as I could edge as he reached his feet under the desk to slip the golf shoes back on again.
Then he turned and left the room.
The door clicked shut, but I still waited several minutes to be sure the coast was clear before I emerged from under the desk.
I helped myself to a beer from the mini-fridge. Yes, Mr. Thorne, there actually is a mouse in your office. She's been hiding under your desk and now she's drinking your beer!
Grace had told me to help myself to the mini-fridge's contents, along with my bagged lunch. I was allowed, but I stil
l felt the thrill of doing something illicit, because I was sure she meant the soda, not the beer. The first sip of beer was incredible, and the second was even better.
My legs where shaking from all the excitement, and the leather sofa was calling for me to lie down and take a rest, but I still had to get the office tidied up.
I worked like a speed demon for an hour, then when Grace came to check on me, I zipped out to pick up the supplies at the nearby office supply place.
The enormous smile never left my face.
Part 3: The Gardener
It was my third day at the Thorne mansion, and I still didn't know Mr. Thorne's first name, nor what he looked like from the waist up. For the previous two days, Grace had whisked me through to my appointed task room and escorted me back out again, giving me no chance to wander around on my own, finding photos or clues.
I could have done some more digging online, but after a bath and dinner, I'd gone straight to sleep the night before, crashing out on the vintage teak sofa in the living room, which was quite unlike me. Mr. Thorne's office had put me through my paces, in more ways than one!
As I parked my car along the side of the mansion, my nipples got hard in anticipation. I peered under my blouse at my nips, peering up like ripe raspberries from within my push-up bra.
One more day, I told myself. One more room to organize, then I'd be getting paid. Under my modest tan skirt and loose-fitting blouse, I wore pink underwear, the same shade of pink as my most private regions. I'd love to show my pink to Mr. Thorne, I thought. If only I was allowed.
Why couldn't he see me, anyway?
The best reason I could come up with was that Mr. Thorne had a girlfriend, and the staff had been instructed not to let any women near him. I knew how it was with powerful, rich men, and any sweet little piece of ass that got near them.
Governors were always having it off with housekeepers and interns. That the news about a governor having a love child would even be news was laughable. I was sure it happened constantly. And why wouldn't it?
