my willing body, until finally he gives in and lets himself spurt all over –
‘Oh fuck, Mr Woods,’ I moan, because everything is just too much. The heated pulse between my finger and my clit, the feel of the fake cock fucking into me, raggedly, the idea of him coming on my upturned ass … I can’t take it.
Instead, I press down hard on my clit and let the first trembling waves ebb through me, pushing back against the pounding he’s now doling out until said waves become a great wash of pleasure.
‘Yes, keep doing that, keep doing it, I’m coming – ohhhhh,’ I tell him, because by this point I’m beyond all good sense. I don’t know who I am or where I might be, and all I care about is the orgasm that’s shoving rudely through my body.
And God, it goes on and on and on. By the time it’s finished I’m a wet, trembling mess on the desk. Perpendicular hands forgotten. Perfect clothes sweated through. Ass so sore I’ll barely be able to walk for the rest of the day.
Though that’s not unusual, for our cold little relationship. At the very least I’m usually sitting on some red handprints in any afternoon meetings I then have – meetings that are actually going to start very soon.
In fact, they’re going to start so soon that my real self comes back to me far quicker than usual, and I go to straighten before he’s given me permission. I try to stand, but before I can get anywhere near said position that tented hand is back on my ass. His metallic voice is back in my ear.
‘Stay still, Ms Harding,’ he says, only he sounds different for just a second. That metallic tone peels away and reveals something rusted and old beneath, and then I actually feel it on my skin, just as I had imagined.
A searing stripe of something slick. And then another. And another.
Though that’s not the shocking thing. I mean, I’ve often imagined him losing some of his control. Sometimes I’ve hungered for it, with my hand between my legs and orgasm just one wretched inch away.
But in all of these fantasies of him breaking, I’ll confess: I never imagined him moaning something heated. The Benjamins of this world moan heated things. They let themselves go and can’t control themselves – not people like Mr Woods.
So why does he tell me: ‘Oh yes that’s so good’ just as he’s coming? Why?
And more than that: why does it make me feel so low?
Chapter Two
Of course I know something’s wrong the minute I look up and see Benjamin stood there, framed in the meeting-room doorway. He never, ever, on pain of death interrupts the Monday morning break-downs. Never. I suspect he’d rather die than let every grey face in here see him up so close, with his shirt perpetually untucked on one side and his expression always so naked, so naked.
But he’s here, and he’s obviously waiting for me to say something. Speak, boy, I think, like some sort of ridiculous internal sneeze. Like a reflex I don’t really want to have, but which comes anyway, unbidden.
Then I get a hold of myself, and straighten, and greet him more normally.
‘Yes?’ I ask, but it’s the strangest thing. Somehow it comes out sounding like speak, boy, anyway. And even worse, I think he might know it. The faintest flush spreads over his face after I’ve spoken, and when he finally manages to explain he’s all expansive and blunder-y about it.
‘Ms Harding,’ he says, and this time I really get a flash of something unwanted. That buzz, I think, that buzz at the start of my name, only different to the way I usually hear it. Usually I don’t know what to do with it.
But I know right now.
I tell everyone to take five, and walk briskly to the door. All of these strange and new parts of me very aware of how fumbly Benjamin suddenly appears. How like he’d seemed in my head when I hadn’t meant to think of him.
‘Uh, yeah,’ he says, the minute I’ve closed us into the narrow hallway.
I resist the urge to tell him that those words are decidedly not the ones to use. A man of his size and stature should be clear and precise; he should tell me directly what he means. He shouldn’t be like this, all awkward and half-crouching down – though I don’t know why it suddenly bothers me so.
It never bothered me before my last meeting with Mr Woods. Before that sense of strange lowness, of a sudden shift in the way things are between us.
‘Go ahead, Benjamin,’ I say, though again those aren’t the words I want to use. The real ones are in the back of my mind somewhere, being ignored until I can think about all of this more clearly.
‘I’m supposed to take you up to your office, Ms Harding,’ he says, and that’s when I know it. I’m not going to get the chance to think about this strange little buzz in the back of my mind at all.
And it’s mainly because of this sudden and creeping sense of unease.
Of course, I felt that way the moment I walked in this morning. But it’s far more obvious now, as I take in every little nervy tic of the strange man in front of me. He’s not uptight exactly – it’s not like that. He’s not wound up inside himself, unable to escape. It’s more like his insides have escaped far too much, and are currently spilling themselves all over me. The urge to brush bits of him off my vintage Yves Saint Laurent suit is strong, very strong.
‘I see,’ I say, though of course what I really want to do is ask him what all of this is about. He has a lot of papers in his hands – which had seemed perfectly right in my head. It’s just that it doesn’t seem perfectly right now. ‘Lead the way, then.’
He does. He lollops on ahead of me, every stride so immense that after a moment I actually find myself almost trotting to keep up. Of course I don’t let it show – he’s so obvious in his movements that I anticipate his head turns, and always slow to a near halt – but even so. There’s an element to it that’s mildly disconcerting. Like something about him doesn’t quite match up or work, and it’s my job to figure it out. Though I’ll be honest, I’ve no idea when the task fell to me.
‘Here we are, Ms Harding,’ he says, and I notice several things at once. I notice his voice first, despite the fact that doing so is the wrong thing to be picking up on. I shouldn’t be thinking about his odd, slightly glassy and very American sort of accent, while stood outside Mr Woods’ office.
And I definitely should have taken in the new brass plate on the door, before anything about Benjamin occurs to me.
But the truth is, I don’t. For a long moment I simply stare at him, in a much meaner way than I intend. I watch him ruffle through his papers, most of them almost sliding out of his grasp as usual. That ridiculous, All-American-Boy hair of his falling into his eyes, as he attempts to function like a normal human being.
And then finally I ask, without letting any of my deep, deep concerns about this entire situation affect me. I don’t let them show in my expression, I don’t give them time in my tone. I already know what’s happened here, but I keep it cold and below the surface.
‘Perhaps you could tell me why my name is on the door, Benjamin.’
Of course, I half-know what his reaction is going to be. And I’m proved right when his mouth kind of flops open and his big eyes get bigger. The search for some unnamed thing amidst his pointless papers gets more frantic.
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Oh, I thought you knew, Ms Harding. Did no one tell you?’
I think of the people above Woods, from the board of directors. Julian Wentworth, with the little pointed beard and the fidgety hands. Derek Carruthers, who so rarely visits that I don’t even have a few bullet points to pin to him. He could have three heads and one eye for all I know.
‘No,’ I say, and this time the expression on his face is so clear I could have read it from across