OK, I know it’s not Thursday, and I know I said I’d have finished this by then (although some of you probably didn’t believe a word of it!). But it was getting bigger, and I was rather enjoying it, and it took ages…until finally… And it turns out that it’s much bigger than I expected…!
Here it is: what Charlotte does when Sir has told her to arouse her client and take a picture to prove it, and then tells her he can see her every move.
Happy reading! x
He’s watching? Most people’s reaction would be to frantically scan the place in a blind panic, trying to find a sign—a body movement, a distinctive and remembered piece of clothing, an object—something to prove that he’s there. Mine is to freeze, to implode nerve by nerve, at the very thought that he can see me; after all this time he can see me. The drinks arrive and the waft of strong coffee nearly makes me baulk. Every part of the surface of my skin erupts into goosebumps.
“You sure you’re all right today? You look frozen. Do you want to move away from the air con a bit?” Mike’s face has lost the intense enjoyment it displayed as he was looking at the website screen shots. I’ve successfully replaced it with a frown and a drawn expression. He’s making me feel guilty and he doesn’t have a clue, poor devil.
“No—no, I’m fine. Just got a bit of a shiver, that’s all. You carry on.”
He looks at me, still frowning. “If you say so. But eat some of that breakfast, before it’s as cold as you are.”
I grin, retorting with, “When it’s as wizened up as you are, I’ll know it’s time to stop eating it.”
“Even wizened things quite like being eaten, you know.”
I can’t look him in the eye. Just smile down into the coffee that turns my stomach. I can feel his gaze upon me, and I mumble something about looking at the landing page ideas, which luckily creates enough enthusiasm to return him to rummaging through the papers. I breathe deeply and send a text:
“How the fuck can you be watching me? You don’t know where I am.” An awful sick wave washes completely over me, drowning me in the creepy possibility that he’s tracking my phone somehow, or that he’s known all along where I live and he’s been spying on me. That he’s sitting close by right now and I don’t know where—and I daren’t look.
Buzz: “I told you, I know everything.”
I scrabble with the keys under the table cloth: “You’re winding me up, aren’t you? You can’t see me.”
What the hell does that mean? The room feels like it’s closing in on me, as if I will suffocate. I drink my coffee, squeezing my hands around the mug, trying to block out everything except the work, and what it is that Mike wants. Feigning a ludicrous amount of enthusiasm for a discussion on whether or not to create links that open in another window, and if so, which one, I move closer, brushing against his arm. My knee catches his own, and I feel him jump. And I sense his eyes roaming my face, too. I continue talking, my knee pressing a bit harder against his, and at the moment we agree about links on the products pages, my hand rests on the top of his leg. I feel his entire body stiffen at my touch, and I’m disgusted at myself for trying to make the contents of his trousers do the same, just because he says so. Slipping my fingers a little further around into his inner thigh, I squeeze gently. He’s beginning to swallow a lot, unsure whether to try and hold my gaze or keep his eyes off my face now. But he doesn’t move my hand away.
I lean in as we’re looking at some screen shots, and he’s trying to annotate them with an increasingly shaky script. I can’t believe I’m doing this—my fingers move slowly to the very top of his inner thigh, brushing his crotch, and I feel him jerk under my fingertips. Again I brush against his erect cock which is lining a matter of several inches down the top of his trouser leg now. Surprising myself, I let out a gasp, and stare straight at him. He holds my gaze for a few seconds, then turns back to paper shuffling, his entire face the colour of the juicy inside of a watermelon. Maybe there’s juice at the end of his cock now, there, under my flexing fingertips? Oh, fuck! What if there is?
Buzz: “I’m waiting. Do you want me to end the punishment? Altogether? You know what I mean by that.”
My rather empty stomach curdles as the words scorch themselves into my consciousness. Immediately I reply: “It’s coming” and wish I hadn’t.
Buzz: “The photo, or his cock that you’re teasing so naughtily? You’re a BAD girl. Now be a good little love slave and SEND THE FUCKING PHOTO!”
I’m totally wired now; the looks that Mike keeps giving me, the knowledge that his cock is rock hard under the table because of the way I’ve touched him; the shot of fear I get every single time my phone vibrates. There has to be a way of doing this.
“Bollocks, I’ve dropped my phone. Sorry, Mike—do you mind? If I don’t surface in two minutes, send out a search party.”
The phone disappears under the crisp, white folds that hide my hand from Mike’s sight. He shakes his head, and the look he gives me is one of an animal in pain that needs putting out of its misery, one way or the other. And that’s just it, isn’t it? How exactly does Mike want me to alleviate his pain? What kind of hornet’s nest am I stirring up? Why don’t I just stop?
I hope desperately that I’ve not actually bust the phone by letting it fall. I did hold it as close to the floor as possible when I let go, and at least it’s carpeted under the tables. I slide off my chair, my fingers still dallying in Mike’s groin, and press the heel of my hand into the length of his cock as I lever myself off my chair and disappear under the table. Through the veil of white linen, his stifled moan reaches my ears, and, to my horror, I realise that my pussy is wet. Really wet. My skirt lining sticks to my folds, and the wetness has pooled in my entrance. I can feel it when I flex my pussy muscles. What is the matter with me? How can I be getting off on this?
I hope the flash doesn’t go off. I can’t remember how it’s set up. Mike’s cock strains against his trousers, bending it slightly. I’ve never seen it look like that. My god, it’s marvellous! A picture of his cock, desperate to escape its confines, now sits on my phone, and my heart is banging inside me as I click ‘send’. Pushing myself back up onto my seat, I’m conscious of the fire in my face. I can’t believe I’ve never noticed how the bulge in his trousers appears before; he gives a whole new dimension to ‘cock-tease’. He looks at me as I settle back in the chair, his eyes alight with a flame to spur on my embarrassment. Is it, though? Embarrassment? A long, drawn-out ache is developing between my legs, wrapping its way across the bottom of my belly, and caressing my hips with an excruciating and unfamiliar pain.
“Did you get it?”
I just stare at Mike with terrified eyes and an open mouth that feels like the oval that inspires his gaze. He smiles and his eyes are making every effort to penetrate me and make me rise to his movement. He leans in closer to me as he tugs his chair a bit closer. Oh!
“The phone. Got it?”
I nod, and smile, and he puts his hand on my arm. It lingers; it never lingers, except when he’s had too much to drink. And my instinct is to wrap my hand over the top of his. I don’t know why—what’s wrong with me?
Buzz: “Push your fingers inside yourself. Make them glisten with your cum. Now.”
Mike’s arm, and the close-in feeling that the wall creates, and the tablecloth, and my heart banging, and knowing he’s hard under the table and…I put the phone on the table and push up my skirt, quickly fingering my clit before sliding my fingers through the wet folds and thrusting my fingers in. My breath is unsteady, I want to moan but I can’t, and my hand shakes as the next message flashes up:
“Your fingers are wet now, aren’t they? I KNOW they are. Can you feel your juices sticking against your skin? Make it run between your legs. Make him notice you’re fucking yourself. Drive him wild. Get him to smell it, to taste it.”
I can’t. I remove my hand from Mike’s arm, amid his disappointed expression; type it. “I can’t.” Send the message.
It takes every ounce of resolve to try and drag things back on track, to get Mike to stop looking at me, and to take up the papers once more. As I do, I watch his fingers: the still smooth skin dotted with one or two freckles, the yellow nicotine patch on the top of his middle finger on his left hand, next to his well-kept nails. They curl around the sheets and my mind creates associations, on overdrive as it is. The image of him screwing up my perfect linen sheets in his hand while my palms rest either side of his head on the pillow; I move up over him and slide slowly back down to press him inside me, feeling every inch of his hardness filling me, throbbing and fucking against my soft, sensitive inner tissue; his moans filter through the air to the white voile which is blowing in the breeze, and they are joined by mine as I thrust and rock us to orgasm—.
The image sends a pain to rip through me, and I can’t help myself. I force his gaze to hold mine, my breath increasing in length, in voracity, as my fingers work their magic inside me. The wetness seeps between them as I feel my way around my cunt, stretching my fingers apart when I’m deep inside, desperate to fill myself like Mike’s cock would. I work them faster, pounding into me so that the heel of my hand nurtures the hard nub under it and it’s all I can do to prevent myself from moaning long and loud. Mike’s hand is under the table, and I know he’s squeezing his cock, hard. His face is riddled with that look, his breath is shallow and short, and he bites down on his lip. I feel my ache building deep within me, and I know I’m going to scream if I don’t stop. I pull out, fast and hard, and my shudder travels up through my back and into my hair.
When I lift my hand above the tablecloth, his eyes are transfixed by the flow of juices. They run from my fingers, into the palm of my hand. I don’t know what to do with it now. For a second, I consider wiping it on the tablecloth, but I just stare at it, and grasp at my cup, shaking it in my grip and succeeding in knocking it down over my knuckles.
“Here. Let me get that.”
Mike’s napkin in in his hand, and he takes my finger in his. He dabs at my knuckles, drawing my hand closer to him until it’s pressed against the underside of his chin. I know my own scent; I can smell it. It must be overpowering him. His face is pulsating. He’s drawing me to him. Oh, fuck—his mouth is so hot. Guilt fills me; I didn’t have to even try to make him do it. The roughness of his tongue sends tingles down the back of my throat to travel to my waist and they gather force as his lips begin to suck the length of my middle finger, sucking harder as he encounters each knuckle in turn, all the way to my nail polish.
Message: “Is he suitably horny? Is he desperate to push that skirt of yours up and feel his way inside your naked little cunt with his sad, fuckwit fingers?”
I’m not even sure Mike notices me read it. His hands are around mine, his breath is erratic, and those eyes—I can’t bear the intensity of those eyes. He’s so close to me now, pressed against my body with his own. And he’s so utterly lovely; he always has been. Poor Mike. I wonder if—maybe…
A quick message: “Y”. I can’t write more. Mike’s breath is on my neck. That blue blouse, I should never—oh— his palm is so hot, slipping up the curve of my breast. He takes my hand, pressing it down hard against his length, and his whisper winds its way through my hair. “Touch it, feel how you’ve made it go. Charlotte, here, you did that. Please tell me. Tell me you want it. That it means what I think it does.”
Oh, what the hell do I do now? His lips are brushing the corner of my mouth, his hand between my jacket and my blouse now, fumbling with the material, yanking it from my waistband. It’s like being with a different man. A Mike I’ve made. His palm feels cool against my boiling skin and enough to cause spasms through the muscles around my spine; his fingers slipping in the back of my bra as he moves the front of the blouse and casts an appreciative gaze down into the plunge of my tits. “Mmmm, I love the blue. Are your knickers the same colour?”
Fucking phone: “Yes? He is horny for you? Then leave the meeting—now. Go!”
Mike’s hand is running over my skirt. I can feel the hem sliding upwards against my thigh. The hot touch of his lips on my neck; the trail of tiny kisses into the top of my blouse. I leave the phone staring at the ceiling as it lays on the table, my arms slipping under his jacket. Wow, I’ve never felt his body like this before—the definition of the muscles across his torso, the firmness of his back. I leave the smell of me all over his shirt as my fingers explore him, flexing into his skin, as he leaves the residue of my cum that still lingers on his lips against my neck. I want this—I want it so much.
“Don’t make me tell you again!” It flashes up in the notifications box on my phone screen. Mike’s hand is at the top of my thigh. Any moment now and he’ll know I have no knickers to match the bra that his nose is now nuzzling.
I push myself off the chair, standing abruptly and leaving him still with his head cocked towards my now invisible neck and his hands in disarray. Grabbing my phone and my bag, I can barely bring myself to look at him.
“Keep the paperwork until you let me know what you want. I mean—tell me what you want me to change. I have to go. I’m sorry…I have to go…”
What’s he doing? Is he still sitting there? I can’t look. Will I still have a friend, a contract, the rent money? How the fuck could I be such an idiot?
Text: “What just happened? I don’t know what this means. Charlotte, are you OK? I’m sorry.”
There’s a bookshop right next to me. I almost run inside, don’t stop moving until I’m right at the back, hiding among the cubby-hole shelves. Tears take hold and there’s nothing I can do to stop them as they run over my cheeks and pool in dark patches on my jacket. I just slide down, down until I’m a pile of nothingness at the bottom of the shelves that are edge to edge with Plato and Socrates. Which one said that women are just vessels for men to pour into? Maybe it was one of the others. I should know; I can’t remember. I can’t think straight at all. Mike has nothing to be sorry for, and with shaky fingers I type a message, telling him so. I send another, saying I’m all right, and that I’ll call him. A minute or two elapses before I receive another from him. “OK. I just want to know where I stand with you.” And another: “You must know how I feel. I’m sure you do. I’ll wait for your call.”
I take deep, nasal breaths, trying not to gag on my own dry mouth, hoping that no-one wants Ancient Philosophy or a copy of the Iliad right now. I try my best to tidy up my face, but it’s puffy and pink, and my mascara has leached into every crevice around my eyes and formed channels down the side of my nose. I just want to bury myself and never surface again. I cling to my phone, wondering what it is I can say to him. How can I tell him what I was doing? Or how I felt when he reacted? I still can’t get my own head round it.
Buzz, there against my chest: “All done?”
I want to pelt the phone. I sit there, staring at it, finding the object repugnant. Reply: “If you’re fucking watching me, then you’ll know exactly what just happened. I’ll never forgive you for that.”
“HAHAHAHAHA! That’s true, my good little slave girl with no panties on.”
I’m shaking. “WERE you watching? Are you lying to me?”
An immediate response: “;)”.
What does that mean? Can he see me now, falling to pieces amid Ancient History? There’s enough irony in that to make a screenplay. Or is he just so good at his moves that I can’t tell when he’s making me fall for it? Again.
Buzz: “So, now I have a little treat for you, but you have to do one thing to get it.”
My breathing is starting to regulate; I feel a bit numb. Exhausted. Send: “Why should I have to do anything else?”
I want to tell him that it was cruel, the way we just treated Mike, that he doesn’t deserve it, that he’s lovely. And his lips against my face are there with me, the way they open up to my fingers, his hand sliding up my leg to my pussy. Fuck! I’m not telling him any of that.
Buzz: “Because I say so. Hold the phone under your skirt, right now, and take a picture of your pussy. I know it’s wet. I KNOW—and I love it! I want to see. If you send this, I’ll tell you something exciting, and you’ll definitely want to know. Trust me.”