You gotta see your husband's fabulous new office, was the way he'd put it. Even now the words ring in my ears as I masturbate to climax on lazy afternoons. Frank Finlay was Peter's new boss. Peter's my husband -- a kind, good looking, trusting soul. Perhaps it is his trusting ways that are the cause of this. If he hadn't been so trusting he would have said something when Frank Finlay, mid forties, a touch overweight, but otherwise big and impressive, had suggested that Peter stay with the HR guys to 'finish off the paperwork', as he took the 'Pretty young bride' -- me -- off to see this fabulous new office that was to be Pete's.
It was late in the day. The offices had closed and most of the staff had gone home. So when big Frank -- Mr Finlay -- showed me into what was going to be Peter's new office, he had to switch on the lights. Then it was adjusting the blinds to best display the view. We were on the forty-eighth floor. It has to be admitted, the view was spectacular.
"Whatja think?" he asked as he came up behind me and put his large hand on the back of my neck. I wear my hair short. Like a boy. I do some photo stuff with the ad company I work for. The in-house photographer likes my head and neck. And ears, where Cartier earrings are sometimes displayed -- client property, given back after the shoot.
But right now I was wearing a short black Coco Channel dress. Peter had asked me to wear it because, as he had put it, his acceptance to the firm was to be followed by a 'little something'. What the 'little something' was we hadn't been told -- or Peter hadn't -- but we had assumed some cocktails, perhaps, at one of the bars nearby ... or even in the boardroom ... or perhaps dinner, if we struck lucky with the Chairman, the afore-mentioned Frank.
"How would you like to work in an office like this?" Frank Finlay asked me, his hand caressing the back of my neck, fingers curled around it toying with an earlobe -- no Cartier tonight, just a little gold ring through the lobe. A little gold ring he was gently rotating through the hole as he talked. Have you ever had that done? I hadn't! I told him I thought it was a beautiful office. and that the view was divine, and that Peter would love it here. I wondered, as I spoke, what I was supposed to do about the hand on my neck and the fingers at my earring. Should I be showing appreciation for the fact that he was spending time with me? Or the caring way he was making me feel at home in the firm, especially when he must have a zillion other more important things to do? It was as if I was already a part of the team, although Peter didn't start until the first of next month.
"All our high flier's have started at the bottom," Frank Finlay said next, then gave a little chuckle as he patted mine. "Know what I mean?" he asked, his lips not a million miles from my own. Then my attention was directed out the window, at the evening skyscrapers lighting up, the streetlights and car lights already on. I said that I did -- know what he meant -- although in fact, I had no idea. He asked me if I though that was fair, having to start at the bottom like that, as he gently curled his hand round mine. I thought it was fair, I told him, looking out at the night.
"Tell you what," he said, "Lot of people don't realise it's important."
I had no idea what he was talking about, but didn't move as his other hand left my neck and ear lobes and started exploring my other buttock. "Loyalty's important!" he said.
"I'm sure it is," I agreed.
"Hell yes! Sure is," he repeated.
I nodded some more. But I was starting to feel kinda dazed. It seemed my buttocks, and hip, and tummy round the front, were part of this 'loyalty' thing, because as he was talking about the importance of loyalty his hands were exploring me over my little black dress.
"Why don't you give him a call?" he said next, as one of his hands slipped lower towards the hem of my dress and ended up underneath, over the skin at the top of my self-supporting stockings.
Peter has this thing about stocking tops that others can see when you sit down and cross your legs. Says it showed how 'mature' our relationship was. How what I had was for all to see ... but only for him to touch.
Had he told his boss this, I wondered.
For the next two minutes, three, maybe five, I was taken round the room and had my attention drawn to certain key points. Then I was standing behind Peter's new desk. His boss was in Peter's new chair. I had Peter's new phone in my hand. He had dialled. It was ringing. But somehow I'd managed to end up between his spread legs. Or maybe he was showing off the casters on the chair? It had come about by a sort of pincer movement. One minute I was at the desk, phone in hand. Next minute he and the chair had me corralled.
"Hi, this is Peter Rutherford," I heard my husband's voice. I turned to look at his boss as if to ask him what came next. He leant forward, I thought to help, but then his hands curled around my knees. He nodded encouragingly, gently running his hands over my knees as he did. I turned back to the desk, leaving my knees in his hands, the curve of my butt not a mile from his face, with Peter, my husband, on the phone.
"We're looking at your office," I said. It was the first thing that came to mind.
Pete seemed happy to hear me.
Perhaps he thought I'd been kidnapped.
He started to ask me questions about the office. I answered them. He wanted me to be happy with him working here, he said. Yes, I knew that. He wanted me to like what I saw. Yes, I was sure he did. But the problem right now was not so much what I was seeing, but what I was feeling when I saw it. Which right now was Finlay's broad hands turning me to face him. Then his fingers climbing the inside of my legs. I stood with the phone at my ear, telephone wire over my shoulder and snaking back behind me to the bit of the phone that sat on the desk, my feet apart, speaking to my husband, between his boss's legs, who right at this moment had his hand between mine.
"It's a most impressive view," I said, looking over his Finlay's head at the lit upper stories of some nearby buildings. I didn't want to see what he was doing. His hands slipped over the band around the top of my stockings and onto the skin at the top my legs. Peter started to question me about this and that -- the view, the desk, the colour of the carpet -- but it was difficult to be objective with a man's hands up my skirt. When fingers started to play with what was ineffectually guarded by my brief silk panties, objectivity was not the only casualty. Concentration too became more difficult.
I am horribly sensitive down there.
Actually I'm sensitive all over, but one or two places are worse than others.
This was one of them.
