It’s not so easy, no it’s not so easy to wait

unsatisfied with all my writing about real life, I offer you this fictional fantasy.

She’s more beautiful than I am; shining hair and sleek curves that always draw my eyes like blinking neon signs. I’m supposed to be above such things, I think, but taking such beauty makes me feel powerful, as if I’ve committed a daring art heist. As does the fact that I am abusing my position of power over her. There’s a school of thought that says that being her superior means she cannot choose to be here free of coercion. There’s also a school of thought that I favor, that says I do not give one single solitary fuck.

She’s looking up at me with wide eyes. “Please, ma’am…?”

I found it charmingly old fashioned that she referred to me that way, when she started here. Now, she understands without me even having specified, that I prefer it. I’ve no idea what she’s asking for; I have the notion that neither does she.

It’s rare these days that she enters my office at all. I speak to her no more than necessary, some even whispering behind her back that she’s out of favor. It’s endlessly amusing to me, as her work is in fact quite good, and I’m possibly more objectively fair to her than others simply because I know eyes are on us. However, tonight I found myself working past normal office hours, but with too little work to even consider taking home to spoil my entire night. I was surprised when I looked up at my open door, shards of words meant to tell the cleaning crew to skip my office catching in my mouth. She looks like a pinup. The clothing is entirely work appropriate, but too well framed to her figure, too flattering in color and perfectly groomed; the only thing worse for a woman than being not well-appointed enough is to carry off a look perfectly.

It was cinematic, the way she poured to the floor, dropping purse and coat on her way down, splashes of bright color against the grey carpet. There’s room for her, as I removed the chairs that had been sitting on the outside of the desk, to make any visitors stand before me, and preferably get the fuck out quickly. On her knees, palms down on the floor, she was breathing rapidly and trying so hard not to. Poor, poor thing. I pushed my chair back and stood up behind my desk, my own palms down on the surface while I looked at her, how her face wasn’t lowered, but still turned away, eyes closed. I stood back from the desk, looked down at my feet. A pity, that I have always been a Woman in Sensible Shoes in more ways than one. I kicked off my flats under the desk and walked around it, stopping in front of her. She looked down at my feet and slowly inched one hand over my right foot, petting it as gingerly as a wild beast that might turn on her. The light from my desk lamp was now blocked by me, the sudden darkness perhaps becoming the stimulus that made her look up at me.

Never, never would I tell anyone what her dark eyes do to me. It’s frankly undignified. Nor am I certain I could accurately describe it in words. I can only say that when she opens her mouth and quietly pleads with me that it’s like the sudden weightlessness of a roller coaster drop. Her hair is so soft in my hand when I reach down and stroke my fingers through it, so fine as it pulls through my fingers like sand leaking through the gaps. So taut when I close my hand around a fistful and push her down. She resists initially. For just a split second. It’s confusing, I imagine. Instead of my flat hand on her head, there’s a balled up fist both pulling on her hair and spiking knuckles into her scalp to force her down. After the hesitation, she goes down like expensive whiskey, like cheap sweet wine, deceptively mellow.

Her lips touch the top of my foot. Such gentle kisses, not just gentle but genteel. Reserved. Her hair is still in my hand, and I flex it, pulling until I know it hurts. She whimpers, and I can only laugh that it sounds slightly surprised, even now. I can feel from the tension radiating from her that she’s even more confused, is she supposed to do something? Nothing?

To be perfectly honest, I don’t know in the moment. I wasn’t expecting her here, now. I’ve gotten so used to, so spoiled by, messages from a kik account, that I would ignore or respond to at my leisure. There isn’t too much risk in her being here now, though any risk is so grave. So very serious, to threaten her livelihood for this. To threaten mine.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, shooting for as close to a growl as my voice will go without breaking.

“I came back for my phone. I got halfway across town before I realized it was still in my desk. And you’re here…” she trails off uncertainly. I hold her gaze, and her hair, until she breathes deeply and barrels on. “I just. I just missed you missed this I need it please please you haven’t called.”

It nearly gives me the giggles and spoils the mood. There’s something about that sweet note of desperation that gives me better ideas than any amount of free time to riff on masturbatory fantasy.

I let go of her, turning around in the same motion, secretly a little impressed with how well I execute the move. “Stand up. Strip. Then lock the door.”

She’s smart. She has to be because I have no patience, no amount of beauty could be attractive enough to excuse witlessness. I know she catches the way I increase the risk before mitigating it.

I know that’s why she’s here. Without turning around, I know that she’s looking at me in distress, knowing that I’ll pull her up short on any rearrangement of the order I’ve set out. There are several heartbeats of silence before I hear movement. The sound of clothes rustling, of muted hurry.  I’m dying to turn around and watch her. I softly bite my tongue, just enough that I can concentrate on the feeling and push back the need we both pretend I don’t feel.

The longer I stand there, the more I feel the sparks arcing up my spine, the more I feel heat in my face. I close my eyes, and indulge myself in the visual of turning around, grabbing her and shoving her down. I can feel myself grabbing her arm too hard. I’m hurting her for no reason, for the best reason. I love it when she squeaks in pain and swallows it, tries to take it for me. The wave of physical arousal that washes through me when I think about biting until she bleeds is almost enough to knock me out of my poise. She’s a fucking Waterhouse painting, ruddy cheeks and intense gaze and I want to shake her out of her frame.

Thankfully, the bolt in my door’s locking mechanism is a heavy thing, and clacks loudly against the muted electronic hum of a sleeping office block. As I turn around, she’s back in the middle of the small room. God, those fucking thighs. I want to bend her over and fuck her with any number of terrible mundane objects I have at hand, for daring to make me feel so out of control.

“You goddamn reckless slut” I hiss. I sound angry, even to my own ears. “Foolish, foolish…” I mutter audibly, as I’m reaching over and rummaging through the bottom of my purse. After finding what I’m searching for, I look her in the eye and point to my desk chair. “Sit.” The caution with which she eyes my closed hand, gripping something unknown, almost makes me have to turn away to hide a smile.

The sound of the chair squeaking when she sits down, the unease in her posture as she looks back up at me, the deepening confusion when I hold my hand palm up to show her a shiny metal coin… I’m breathing it in like pulling a hit of drug laced fumes.

“My grandmother, god rest her bitter, starched soul…” I begin coldly, pausing to roll the coin into place between my thumb and forefinger “… had advice for girls like you.”

I hold the coin out. She’s frozen, a rabbit that’s not sure if the hawk has seen it.

“She would say that stupid reckless sluts would be much improved if only they could learn to hold a dime between their knees.”

There’s a long pause, the sort where every breath seems like it should be as visible as a winter’s day exhalation. It feels inevitable that she reaches out and takes the coin from my hand, that she accepts whatever I have to give her. I find it extremely hard to maintain my poker face when she finally does so, for even expected victory is always sweet. Even so, she’s still moving in slow motion as she delicately tucks it in between her knees and looks up at me with an expression that mixes hurt and confusion.

I stand back, unzip my pants and slide them down over my hips. I can’t help but smile when they actually fall and puddle at my feet so that I can just step out of them. Had I had to bend and peel them off, I’d have missed the slow replacing of hurt with a gentle sunrise of hope on her face.

“Don’t move.”

Her hands are so delicate. Trying to follow my order to the letter, they’re limp as I pick them up, put them on the chair arms and curl the fingers under. I feel her muscles tense just before I let go, her making sure they stay exactly put when I lift my own hands away.

I don’t get to watch her this time, as I wiggle out of panties that would have been far less utilitarian had I expected this. Using my free hand to pull her hair, to pull her head back, my balled up panties are shoved just far enough into her mouth that she has to bite down to hold them in place. She knows better than to let them fall.

The chair is small, and I briefly worry as I lower myself onto her legs. I’m not sure I could salvage my dignity or the night if it broke under us. Shoved back against the desk, it seems sturdy enough as I slide across her thighs, centering myself over the left leg. As soon as I feel settled enough in place, I put a hand back in her hair, jerking her head back. I lean forward, pressing against her, my breath warm on her ear.

“She might have been right about that, but it’s a shame to see a slut not used for all they’re good for.”

Her responding whimper, barely audible, is the final thing I need, and I begin to grind my clit against her, making tiny rocking motions with my hips and feeling how she flexes her thigh muscles to meet me.

She’s panting and I pull her head back a little further, making her grimace and squeak. I desperately want to slap her face, to hear the sound of it ringing through the empty building, but I’m already making too much noise, squeaking the chair as I slide across her increasingly slick thigh.

“Dirty girl.” I exhale the words into her ear as I reach up and twist one of her nipples. “Just look at you.”

I’m so close. So fucking close. I just need. I just. I need.

I lean over to the desk again, still trying to rock against her, fumbling against papers and nearly knocking a mug off the side.

She gasps, loud even as muffled as she is, and then I see her bite down harder on my panties, as I catch her nipple in a binder clip. I see tears starting to collect in her eyes and I’m seeing stars. Oh god. Oh god.

“Just look at you, and look at how you like it.

A tear rolls down her cheek as I pull on the clip, and I’m thinking about how I’m going to hurt her when I get her where I don’t have to be so careful, so quiet. In my mind’s eye, she’s already spilling more tears and I’m there now, rocking harder, hand on her neck, oh god. Going to hurt her. Oh god.

I come with a hiss, bucking and clawing fingernails into her neck.

She’s stiff, holding me up as much as holding still, until I creakily get off her. I take the panties from her mouth and toss them in my purse.

“Go to the chinese place around the corner. Get the usual order. I’ll see you at my house.”

 

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Something So Trivial

“Hold still.” I reach over and pluck a pine needle from his hair, showing it to him on my open palm with a little flourish.

He shakes his head and laughs. “Didn’t I take that damn thing out a week ago? And we’ve vacuumed at least twice?”

I assure him that we’ll be finding pine needles until February, and that’s why I’ve banished tinsel from the house. It’s Friday night, and we’ve got books and a cheese plate that have required our utmost attention, but I’m starting to get a cramp in my leg from sitting in the same position for too long.

“Rub my legs”

“mmm…?” He looks up from his book, where he’d quickly gotten caught up in reading again. I feel a tiny twinge over disturbing him, but that’s easily dismissed. I swing my legs up into his lap and lay back against the arm of the couch.

“My legs. They’re cramping.”

Obedient as ever, he rubs his hands over my legs, cautiously working the muscles in my calves and thighs before picking the leg up and pushing it towards my body in a fetal position. I wince as my knees and cramped muscles register their complaints. Helping me sit up after, he asks if I want anything else. “Your tea must be cold. I could get you another?”

“Please. And put the cheese away.”

I watch him walk away, the sight of his shirtless back inviting me to run my hands over it. My thoughts on watching him bend over to put the cheese in the refrigerator would have sent Thomas Bowdler into a frenzy of inking and cutting until nothing was left. My book was seeming less and less interesting. You’d think watching someone wrap leftovers and get tea down from the cabinet would hardly be a better option, but I have always loved observing him in small moments. There’s something fascinating about the way he holds himself, the small gestures of his hands, when he thinks no one’s watching.

It takes long enough for the water to boil that I manage to have gone to the bedroom to retrieve a few small items and be back watching him by the time he’s pouring it over my tea bag. He brings my cup carefully to the coffee table, setting it down before he looks up at me. I can see his eyes flicker with a momentary recognition as he sees that on the hand I’m resting my chin on, I’ve put on my metal claws.

We look each other in the eyes before he smiles and asks “Are you a kitty? Does the kitty want to play then?”

I turn my face away from him and meow disdainfully.

He’s in the middle of asking me “What? What does the kitt…” when I lean over and swipe, knocking the handful of candy canes that have survived the season, from the table to the floor. He sighs in mock annoyance and crouches to pick them up. “Well, if kitty doesn’t want them, I don’t, so I guess I’ll toss them.”

I snatch one from his hand. “You don’t like peppermint, do you?” I ask, peeling it and licking the curved end.

“Not much, no.” He’s still now, waiting to see what it is I’m planning. I hold his gaze and listen to him breathing, I reach out and trace a claw over the outline of his collarbone. I’m gentle at first, using only one hand, then place the candy cane between my teeth and trail downwards to press harder over the fleshier parts of his chest. He flinches slightly, but tries to maintain his posture in the awkward position.

I motion for him to get on his knees in a sitting position, and he looks briefly grateful. The look doesn’t last, as I go back to scratching him hard enough to leave long red marks that don’t fade after a few breaths, and he starts wincing and hissing as I leave some of the deeper furrows.

I take the candy cane from my mouth and wave it in a little flourish before I mock pout at him. “That’s not a very good scratching post. Let’s give you a little… help. Open your mouth.”

His look is pleading, though I’m not sure for what, as he follows my order. I place the candy cane in his mouth, turned so that the crook is wedged between the roof of his mouth and tongue.

“Hold that for me, my love.” I purr. I flex a clawed hand at him before walking around behind him. “Now we can get started.”