tagExhibitionist & VoyeurAn Office Thing

An Office Thing


A snippet, that I'm hoping will become part of a greater whole...

It's not so unexpected that I would dream of you, as you were my last thought before I slipped, so quickly, into a calm and satisfied sleep last night. I guess the weird, the unsettling, thing for me was that I was thinking of you at all, let alone the particular nature of the thoughts.

I went to bed late. I always do, but never late enough as I'm the kind of person who simply never grew up on the sleep front. I still believe that going to bed before midnight means I'm missing something, and I stay up and up and up, counting down the hours I'll have left to sleep, but unable to dredge up the poke to stand up, walk up the stairs and crawl into bed. My husband calls it the three-hour-goodnight, as I start talking about how tired I am around nine, and am still doing the same three, four hours later.

So eventually I made it. Up the stairs, teeth brushed, clothes laid out for tomorrow (on the floor, just so I can get up and out without disturbing my guys - husband, two daughters in the morning; I leave so damn early), work clothes off, sleep attire on or off, dependant on the weather and, yes, okay, my mood. And I turn out the lights and slide into bed, the rest of my house a-buzz. It's the school holidays and the teenagers are up, my husband not yet home from after work drinks, so I turn on the alarm (going off in five hours 23 minutes) and I lie on my back and see what I need to do to be able to drift off as quickly as my need for the full five hours at least demands.

Hell, I know what I need - the true question is, could I get to sleep without it, and I reach my hand into the second drawer of the small table by my bed and pull out the small turquoise velvet purse that my mother-in-law bought me the christmas before last. I'm thinking that, beautiful as my small delicate pink buddy who dwells in that wallet, beautiful as she or he (mmm, now there's a thought...) makes me feel, I might need a little more inspiration, what with the time considerations and all, and my thoughts head straight, dirty grrrl that I am, to the internet, and the iPad beside my bed. I click on my usual mobile-friendly no-flash site, but, nope, the strain of one kid on the PS3 and the other doing whatever with whomever on hotmail messenger, has fucked up the connection and I have to resort to my old friend, imagination.

I press the button at the top of my vibrator and slide her - for, it's true, there's something undeniably feminine about this object - where she's happiest. I leave her buzzing away there as I give up on the iPad, and lay on back going through the guys I know, a kind of cut-the-crap version of the shag-shove-or-marry game. I ain't after marrying no-one.

My boss, ach, good-looking enough, but a total dick, so he's gone. In the caring profession (one step less right-on than social work) in which I earn my living, the men, and no offence, but they're not what you want to think about with four pulsating inches of plastic buzzy-buzzing away, right in that perfect spot. I open my legs wide, wide, and wider, push that little beauty on down, so she's just willing me to think those goddamn thoughts, and I flail around, in my mind, for someone just hott enough to come to my aid in this time of need. And so I come to be thinking of you.

In my head, you walk into my office, not shy and apologetic like you usually do, but with a sense of purpose, right up to me, no speaking, nah, fuck that, just right up to me - hell, it's a fantasy, right? - and you take my chin in your hand and turn my face so I'm looking straight at you. My bright blue, big blue, eyes, into those just melty-melting chocolate eyes of yours and I just melty-melt too, and in my head, with ms. Pink mmm-ing away up against my clit, you kiss me as I slip back and up onto my desk. No pretence, no cool, no shit, and you slip, in my head, as ms. Pink beats her tune, in my head you slip your body between my legs, which just open, and you push yourself, your whole self, in my head, against my whole self.

And then, last night, before I dreamt of you, in my head I fucked you, absolutely, so, so, so, so good and proper, and as, in my head, you slipped your big fucking luverly self inside of me, and I thought of that, and how it would be, on my desk (I may just pause to pull down my blinds) and not speaking, not a goddamn word, I push ms, pink further against me, let her tip maybe slip up me, just a little, as I'd love your cock to just be doing right now. And it does not, let's be honest, take long for me to be just biting my lips and holding my breath and just holding and holding my breath, until, imagining you just cumming inside me, ms. Pinky makes me smile, just the biggest smile, and I roll and over go straight to sleep. Five hours and four minutes worth of sleep left, and, as it happens, yes, I dream of you, and of the four pretty silk scarves that I've often thought could be put to good use by a person of imagination in the bedroom.

Now, as I open my office door, coffee in one hand, bag in the other, I suddenly think about you and anyone watching would maybe notice the briefest of brief smiles flit across my face, as I try to bite it back. I have that weird vaguely embarrassed feeling that you get after someone you don't expect pops up in a dirty dream, and while I'm reminding myself that no-one there, to the best of my knowledge, is a clairvoyant, an image of you, clear as fucking day, sucking and nibbling away at my ample right breast pops into my head. I close my door behind me and my back arches slightly, involuntarily, so I stretch, good and wide, to shake off the feeling. I switch on my computer to 17 new emails. The day has begun.

In a whirl of coffee, biscuits, phone calls, emails and snatched chats -which we pompously refer to as meetings so as to justify their existence - the day passes. Me, I try, as I do every day, to solve the world. I run a small team, part of a larger whole, but thankfully quite separate, aimed at fostering links in the community - basically we fund and set up the facilities you fin in every high rise council estate across the county. From youth clubs to mother and baby groups, that's us... all so worthy that I know I often sound apologetic when I describe my job to people, but, hell, the truth is I love it. Four of us in my team, we hunt out, beg, borrow or steal, the funding and then find out where it can best be spent.

My door is generally open, my head generally down, and that's how you find me when you knock on the door, not long before the end of the day, and pause before walking in.

When I spot you, I am momentarily back on that bed, in my dream, you tying my left hand with that scarf, to the headboard, looking down at me; me just watching, watching, not smiling, not nothing, just one great big mass of tension as I wait for you to, oh hell, as I wait for you to touch and stroke and mmm, just rub, and, from that I click back to reality.

You stand, not sit, and I motion towards the chair. So goddamn polite, nervous, you, it's cute, borderline irritating. You aren't in my team, but I'm maybe ten years older than you, with a fancier title, which doesn't mean shit to me, but I guess it does to you.

'Hey, Andy, I was just thinking about you,' bad I know, but I can't help myself, it's such an easy sport, making you blush. 'How's it going?'

'Not bad,' that's you, 'erm, well, no. Bit shit really.'

And you blurt it all out. I knew your mum was ill - I'd actually helped you find Tamara, the gorgeous carer who looked after her, through a contact at the clinic we fund in High Green - and I listen as you talk me through those last days, poor baby, you, and I do, I get up and walk round to hug you, but you shake your head and I know what you mean. Human closeness like that will be too much and you need to keep it together, so I touch your shoulder, brief but firm, and lean back against my desk; we're nearer but not too close.

It'll be small, you say, the funeral. She'd been ill for years and the friends had fallen away one by one. For a second I think you're going to ask me to come, and I wonder what I'd say, but the direction changes and somehow I offer to meet you for a drink the day after. You'll be off work, you tell me, as you want to get everything sorted, her things distributed, the keys to her flat to the estate agent. I've done this myself, but not alone, me, with my two brothers, and the thought of being an only child at a time like this. I ask if your girlfriend will be there, supporting you, and you kind of shrug, so I'm guessing she's out of the frame.

And so, at six thirty on Friday September 9, here's me, walking into a pub after a day at work, nervous as hell, and ordering myself a large (is there any other kind) JD. Tall, me, big, Amazonian I like to think, and I've taken the time to change from my work outfit into jeans, black t-shirt and a pair of red heels topped off with my new biker jacket. It's how I feel best.

I perch on a barstool, pulling out my blackberry, in which I feign engrossment and don't notice you til you're standing right in front of me. In the heels, I'm your height, and my eyes, my blue, big bright blue eyes, look right into those melty-melting chocolate eyes of yours and automatically I down the drink. Now, now I hug you, quick, friendly, and look back right at you. How was it?

We organise more drinks, and more, and erm, more, but that's not me getting drunk for the specific purpose of seducing you, but me getting drunk because it's what I do. I am a drinker, and so, it seems, are you. Why the hell have we never done this before? And we laugh.

Having talked through the heavy shit, and, hell, it is - after the second double, my eyes are as full of tears as yours - we are now four rounds in (each round now is a Sol and a tequila) and laughing like the most comfortable of friends. Why, I say, tactful as ever, did I not know you were this funny? And we laugh some more.

We leave and have chips along the way to the next pub, walking, strolling more, laughing, swaying, bumping into each other every now and again, all casual like, and kind of bouncing off again. Hey, I know, I do, I know it sounds weird, but I'm not thinking beyond this, beyond this fun, laughy-bouncy-giggly-drinky thing we have going on, truly I'm not. No plan, no master plan, me, just one step, another and another.

The next pub is full, so we have no seat and we're standing, Sols and tequilas, round a small corner at the end of the bar. Noisy as hell, and we're still babbling - probably, if I'm honest, mostly me, with you just soaking it on up, laughing like I'm the funniest thing you ever did hear - and bumping, now that we're standing, up against each other, yes, all casual like, all casual.

And then the pause. Hell, isn't there always a pause. We become conscious of it, and my eyes look to the side and down and up and anywhere but at you, because I can't, and I make that face that is me suppressing laughter and you're all, 'Hey, talky, you've finally run out of words? No seriously, what's up, what's so funny?'

And I get all shy and I punch your arm like a teenage boy, and the giggle starts to come out and someone pushes past you, so you bump full on up against me, and this shuts me up so quick, making for what we both know is a mood-change. I guess it's my call.

I have a great, truly, great husband. No doubts, not leaving this guy. Twenty years, births, deaths, we've been through the lot, and he's my family and that's just the way it is - a non-negotiable. But, and here's where it gets muddy, much as we aren't at each other's throats like so many married folk, we are not all wrappedy-updy ooooo-i-can't-do anything-without-consulting-him-y. We are simply what works for us. Two people who love each other to bits, irritate the fuck out of each other at times, fancy each other when the need arises, and live together.

So, as I stand in the bar, mood- changed, you pushed up against me, no, not callous, no bitch me, he just doesn't enter my mind. My calculation is purely a personal one. Babe, I am one greedy fucking woman and given the choice, if it's something I want to do, hell, I am always going to do it, yep, I am.

I look down. You put your hand, index finger and thumb, onto my chin and lift my head to face you, your middle finger rubs so gently against my lips, making me smile, and I do, I beam. I look right on at you and I find that my head is nodding as I look into your eyes. That nod, I guess, is our answer.

Your fingertips, other hand, brush on mine, and our fingers kind of fold together a bit, not lock, all still casual, which is all this will ever be, I guess. And that's cool, it seems, as you lead us through the crowded pub and we walk down the road, where there's a slight drizzle now, so slight that the drops can only be seen as a light mist against the street lamps.

We pause at the entrance to an alley, turn into the shadow, and fuck, you, this is yours, it is, it's all yours and I'm doing nothing for now, shy-boy, but going where you lead.

Your hand up on my cheek, no frantic here, you kiss me so soft and not, and my hand goes up to your arm. You guide us deeper into the darkness, and now, now we kiss. You whisper in my ear that you want to fuck me and I can't think of one single thing I'd rather do in the world. Those words, you say nothing else, they just contrast so much with the gentle pub flirting and the bumpy, casually laughy talk we've had all night, with the gentle build up, that, mate, you couldn't have turned me on more if you champagned and dined me for weeks first.

Now alleys, and this isn't my first, present certain logistical issues, but, like I say, no stranger, me, so a quick glance and I know where we're going. From behind is always an option, but now, with you, as a first, it's not ideal. I want you facing me, I do. So we walk down further. It's a dead end alley, with the odd back door from shops, restaurants, all closed, and I notice an old computer desk, like purpose-made, dumped outside one of the doors. Perfect.

Briefly guiding you, I sit back on it, wishing to fuck I'd worn a dress, and I open up my legs so you're standing between them. If I'm going to end up naked from the waist down in a public place, I'm figuring I'll wait til the optimum moment. Your hand goes up my top as you kiss me, and your head just follows it. Hell, my breasts, full and round and so fucking wanting to be sucked and nibbled and bitten, they are having a field day, but this is no meal. Not even fast food, this is a snack, like a much-needed Mars bar after a day spent too busy to eat; like a bottle of cold water on a hot and busy tube.

You fumble at my jeans button, and there's only one thing for it. I stand up, there in the drizzly dark, slip my jeans off, and welcome you back between my legs. Crotch pushed to one side, mate, there's no warming up to be done, and your fingers, two, three, when they slip up it's purely a reconnaissance trip, a formality, because, Andy, I am so fucking wet and ready, there's only one place we're going and hell, though I ain't using my hands, I know you're ready too.

You open your jeans, and none of this teasing thing, you slip right on into me, up and in, and me, I wrap my arms, my legs and those extra muscles of mine tight about every bit of you. Filled up to the hilt, I cling on and feel that beautiful friction inside of me, fucking pounding, though this won't and, under the circumstances, shouldn't take long. Sensible, no not me. And all I want, all all all I want, is for you to cum inside me, stupid or no, and when you whisper, 'Can I? I mean, is it okay?' in my ear, fuck, yeah, it's okay, yes, yes, oh yes, yes please, my friend, it is most definitely okay. And so you do...

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