by Mimi Strong
My Bitch Boots were too noisy on the hardwood floor. They'd be a dead giveaway if he was nearby, so I zipped them off and ran barefoot to one of the other doors, listening for the man's voice. He wasn't behind door number two, but he wasn't far away, behind door number three. On the other side of the wall.
I put my ear to the door and breathed deeply as he hummed the wordless melody of a familiar song.
One of my hands moved down to the hem of my skirt and stroked the inside of my thigh. I shivered. That touch felt good, the cool hand on my thigh. Not as good as a man's hand, but nice.
He kept singing, louder now, with that deep voice. Was it opera? There were words, but they sounded Italian, not English.
Both hands darted between my legs, rubbing and pinching the sensitive skin. I closed my eyes and tried to picture him. If he was the man all these suits belonged to, that meant he was tall, with broad shoulders, and a narrow waist. Maybe a swimmer's physique, I thought as one hand slipped inside my red panties.
He stopped singing, and for a moment, I felt self-conscious, like someone could see me. There were three doors, but they were all closed, and Grace had locked them all, hadn't she?
I yanked my hand out from my panties and carefully checked the lock on the nearest door, and then the other two. All the doors were locked, which meant I could do whatever I wanted, which was definitely not organizing the socks. Not yet. The socks could wait.
My need had started up the night before, dancing at the club between two attractive men, roommates or friends or something. I had to choose which one to go home with, and I'd chosen poorly. He'd been fast asleep before I'd even gotten warmed up.
The morning after, mildly dehydrated and extremely frustrated, I was suffering, but not for long.
I pulled off my gray jacket and hung it on a wooden hanger, then slipped out of my skirt.
There was a wood chair in the middle of the room, and I soundlessly brought it over to the door where I'd heard Mr. Thorne's voice, and I took a seat, my legs parted wide. The singing began again. I leaned my head against the door and ran my hands over my breasts, still in the red bra, and then up and down my legs. The desire blossomed out from my belly once more, with a ferocity.
I slipped a hand into my panties and began to rub at the engorged folds, fattening by the second, my slick finger moving easily back and forth, up and down, round and round.
“Hello?” he said from the other side of the door.
I clapped my free hand over my mouth. Now I'd done it. I'd moaned out loud, hadn't I? Lexie, you filthy slut, you were hired to organize this closet, not give it a one-woman sound show!
“Huh,” he said to himself, then he went back to singing.
Oh, that voice!
The laundry bin wasn't far from where I sat, so I took a short break from my ministrations—it's always better if you let the fire build up a little—and pulled out a rumpled shirt. It was pale blue. I wondered if it went with his eyes. Was he putting on the lightweight green sweater I'd picked out for him?
I took off my red bra, let it drop to the floor, and pulled on his shirt. The stiff cotton grazed my hard nipples, and I bit into my knuckles to stifle a moan of pleasure.
The singing stopped again. He knows I'm in here, I thought. He's like a wolf, and he can smell me through the door.
I sat down on the chair again and let the cuffs of the too-large shirt fall down over my wrists. I twisted and squirmed to pull off my panties, then I propped one foot up on the edge of the chair and really let myself have it with both hands, dragging the cuffs of the shirt over my moist folds. I didn't care that I was leaving my sweet juices all over the garment—it would be off to the laundry, and nobody would be the wiser.
The smell on the collar was manly, musky. I drank it in as I rubbed myself, back and forth, up and down.
He was there, so close, on the other side of the door. I imagined it so clearly, that I swear I could hear him breathing. I moaned quietly, the sound of myself sending a shiver up and down my core. There was no return sound from the other side of the door.
Still, I imagined him there, stroking a long, thick, velvety member. Surely he was there, and could feel the heat of my desire, coming through the door. Surely he wondered why Grace had set out his clothes for him, and why the door to his walk-in closet was locked.
All he had to do was push a key into the lock, shove it in and turn it, and I'd fall through the doorway at him.
The smell on the collar.
Musk.
Cotton.
Slick finger, over, under, round and round.
When I came, my orgasm bearing down like a train, I nearly fell off my chair. I realized I'd been arching my back and leaning back so far, my throat exposed. I clenched my legs together, gripping my hands so they didn't dare move away.
From the other side of the door, I heard the man's grunt, and then a moan.
As my body cooled down and I pulsed my thumb for one last shudder, I swear I heard a moan again. You're hungover, I told myself, and you have an absolutely filthy imagination.
I didn't hear anything else after that.
I took off the shirt and held it against my nose, deeply inhaling the scent of cologne and that distinctive smell of a man's body. I almost came a second time, just from the smell of him, the idea of him. My sweet juices were on my hand and on the cuffs, and his smell and mine together were the most intoxicating thing I'd ever encountered.
I tossed the shirt back into the laundry and got dressed.
Over the next few hours, until Grace came to check on me, I tried to keep my mind only on my work, but every half hour or so, I'd run back to the laundry basket and smell that shirt again. I buried it deep, under the other shirts and boxers, but I knew it was there.
Grace came to check on me just as I was sliding the last crisp wool suit jacket into place.
She glanced over at my Bitch Boots, limp on the ground, and looked me up and down. “You look like you've been rode hard and put away wet.”
“Beg pardon?”
“It's an equestrian expression. I gather you don't ride?”
“Not horses.” I pulled my boots on and zipped them up.
Grace chuckled, then looked around at my handiwork. “Lexie, this really is a top-notch job. You'll be able to handle Mr. Thorne's office tomorrow? Are you just as good with files as you are with clothes?”
“For something as intimate as an office, I'd need to work with the client.” I thought about the deep-voiced singing I'd heard on the other side of the door. And the groan. “I'd need to work directly with Mr. Thorne. One on one.”
Grace shook her head. “Mr. Thorne cannot see you. Absolutely not. I'll try to keep him out of the house, so we don't have to play around with locked doors, but the arrangement still stands.”
I didn't question her, just nodded my head. Rich people were weird. It was best to act like whatever weird thing they wanted was the most reasonable thing in the world.
“Same time?” I asked.
“Earlier, say nine. And come to the side door,” she said. “And you might want to bring a lunch. The cook has the day off, and you're looking a little pale. I wouldn't want this little job to take too much of a pounding on you.”
“No, that would be terrible,” I said.
She held the door open and I walked out past her. She took a deep sniff as I walked by.
She showed me out through the side door, which was a shame, because I would have liked to have seen the look on Grace's face when I passed over the shining tile floor and she noticed I didn't have any panties on. They were in my purse. Again.
You need to get your act together, I told myself.
Then I thought about the roll of cash, and I no longer had a care in the world.
On the drive home, I found myself singing that song he'd been singing. I didn't know the words, but the memory was stuck in my head.
When I got home, I had a quick bite to eat, then propped myself up in bed with my lap
top.
Mr. Thorne couldn't see me, but I could see him—or his photo, at the very least.
I tried every search I could think of, but the last name was too common, and even combined with the city name, I still got too many search results. I found nothing in combination with the address, but that was normal. The rich liked their privacy.
I scoured the many Mr. Thorne photos for suits, comparing the ones online to what I'd seen in the closet. As I looked, I rubbed my legs together. Again? My gal wanted to go again? What, was I turning into a guy? I'd just gotten off, not hours before.
After zooming in on a photo of a Mr. Thorne in a dark blue suit, I propped the laptop up on a pillow and opened my Drawer of Delight. I selected the one that had a Mr. Thorne quality, sleek and tasteful, and got to work, taking my time.
As I moved the vibrator's settings between oh-yeah and OHMYGOD, I pictured a man in an expensive suit doing all sorts of things to me. Things I'd never done before: spanking, tricky positions, and even sex in public. I'd settled on a nice image of us in an underground parking lot, me gently biting the shoulder of a man whose face I'd not yet seen. The vibrator was on its lowest setting when I came, hard and fast, crying out in surprise.
I clapped my hand over my mouth. The window to my bedroom was open, and people were walking by outside, talking. Someone asked their companion, “What was that? Did you hear people having sex? I think it came from up there.”
I pulled one of my pillows over my face and giggled like mad.
I suddenly stopped laughing. Had I made all those loud noises earlier today, in the closet? He must have heard me. Damnit.
All the more reason to be extra careful the next day, careful not to be seen, and even more careful not to be heard. And yet, I hoped he'd noticed the scent in his walk-in closet. I didn't know if Grace would be taking credit for the work or if he'd know someone else had been touching his things, folding his boxers and smelling his suits. I hoped he'd pulled the blue shirt from the laundry and smell me on it, then go mad with desire for me.
With that thought, I grabbed my vibrator from the bed next to me and dialed it up to OHMYGOD.
PART 2: The Office Chair
Mr. Thorne had a handsome chair. As I gazed at the swivel chair with the ergonomic, space-age-fabric back—the type of specialized Euro office equipment that probably costs two grand—I imagined the handsome buns that sat there. Did he use the chair first thing in the morning to check on his stocks? Perhaps while wearing only his boxers?
I ran my fingers along the armrests and fantasized about doing a sexy little striptease for Mr. Thorne, culminating in a lap dance. I'd never given a lap dance before—I'm an organizer, not a stripper—but something told me I'd enjoy the act. Perhaps it was my damp panties. Blue ones that day, with the matching bra. I'm not normally such a stickler for matching things up, I just grab whatever's freshly laundered, but the Thorne mansion was bringing out my best and worst behavior—best because of the matching, and worst because I kept rubbing my mound on the edge of Mr. Thorne's desk. Now I was imagining him spanking my butt, and punishing me for snooping around in his papers when I was supposed to be tidying.
All the good stuff was locked away in a filing cabinet, anyway. Phooey.
Grace had made sure of that before she left me alone to organize Mr. Thorne's office. I had little to do, mainly making tidy stacks and folders for piles of magazine clippings and newspaper articles. From what I could tell so far, Mr. Thorne was a visual man. That meant he liked to look at breasts in a nice bra. He also preferred to have his magazine clippings somewhere he could see them at a glance, not tucked away in a drawer. For a man like that, stacking file organizers and those pockets you attach to the wall work best, preferably clear lucite ones.
Lucky for Mr. Thorne, I knew just where to buy such things, and I got a discount. I'd mark up the materials and get a little profit on them as well. I'd be making some good money from this job, and even more if I accomplished the seemingly-simple task of keeping from being seen.
I leaned across the thick, oak desk that was positioned to look at the garden view out the picture window. I used my little measuring tape to measure the width of the desk, and then I thought about using it to measure the width of other things—male things. This gave me a giggle, and I leaned harder onto the desk. I relaxed my neck and rested my face on the cool surface, pressing my right cheek against the wood while imagining a firm hand spanking my bottom for being so naughty.
As I was sprawled out this way, I heard a man's voice, outside the door. The door wasn't locked, because Grace had said Mr. Thorne was out golfing and not due home for hours.
Grace was talking to him, very loud, telling him not to go into his office because… she thought she saw a mouse in there. A mouse! I glanced around.
“Use the laptop in the kitchen,” she pleaded.
“Don't be ridiculous. A mouse? How would it have gotten in here?”
“Through the door?” she said. “I think I saw one come in when the groceries were being delivered. A little white one.”
Oh, Grace, I thought, you're not the world's greatest liar, are you?
Mr. Thorne laughed at the idea of being afraid of a mouse. The door opened. He came into the room.
He paused, and I was sure he saw me, crouched in the shadow underneath the thick wood desk, like a mouse in a cave.
“I don't see a mouse,” he called back to Grace.
She sounded flustered as she prattled on about mice and their habits.
He dismissed her, closed the door, and crossed the room. I caught a glimpse of golf shoes, and a whiff of his cologne.
“No mouse,” he said to himself. “But I do smell pussy.” I couldn't see his face, but I imagined him shaking his head as he said, “Must be my imagination.”
I bit my lip and breathed in deeply, trying to filter the smell of myself through my nostrils, like some human air freshener, which was ridiculous, but when you're hiding under a billionaire's desk and a big roll of cash is on the line, you do what you have to do.
“Mousey, mousey, mousey,” he said, and he pulled the chair away from in front of me. “Pussy, pussy, pussycat?”
My breath caught in my throat.
He sat down on the chair, his legs wide, and his crotch facing me.
I gulped, a little too loud, I feared.
He had quite the package, from the look of it. I licked my lips as the blood rushed to my own crotch area.
He was so close to me, and yet, I couldn't do anything. I wondered what he would do if I reached out and gently unfastened that expensive-looking belt buckle.
As if my own feverish imagination was making my thoughts reality, his own hand unfastened his belt. He had thick fingers, young-looking, with shiny nails, as though they'd been buffed. Of course he'd have a manicure, I thought. A guy that rich probably had four girls work on him at once to save time, one for each hand and foot. Maybe he had a fifth girl too, for other buffing needs.
I licked my lips again and swallowed hard, because my mouth was watering.
The bulge in his pants was moving, growing larger, taller.
He groaned and adjusted himself, the tip of it emerging above the edge of his waistband.
Come on, baby, just undo that zipper, I coaxed him with my mind.
“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 excite
d 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 buttocks 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.”