“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 bu**ocks 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 pu**y, 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 ni**les 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 na**d 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 pu**y.”
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.