by Mimi Strong
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 pussy, 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 nipples 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 naked 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 pussy.”
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.
He took out a light beer and cracked it open.
He crossed the room back toward me, and I held my breath and pulled back as far as I could edge as he reached his feet under the desk to slip the golf shoes back on again.
Then he turned and left the room.
The door clicked shut, but I still waited several minutes to be sure the coast was clear before I emerged from under the desk.
I helped myself to a beer from the mini-fridge. Yes, Mr. Thorne, there actually is a mouse in your office. She's been hiding under your desk and now she's drinking your beer!
Grace had told me to help myself to the mini-fridge's contents, along with my bagged lunch. I was allowed, but I still felt the thrill of doing something illicit, because I was sure she meant the soda, not the beer. The first sip of beer was incredible, and the second was even better.
My legs where shaking from all the excitement, and the leather sofa was calling for me to lie down and take a rest, but I still had to get the office tidied up.
I worked like a speed demon for an hour, then when Grace came to check on me, I zipped out to pick up the supplies at the nearby office supply place.
The enormous smile never left my face.
PART 3: The Gardener
It was my third day at the Thorne mansion, and I still didn't know Mr. Thorne's first name, nor what he looked like from the waist up. For the previous two days, Grace had whisked me through to my appointed task room and escorted me back out again, giving me no chance to wander around on my own, finding photos or clues.
I could have done some more digging online, but after a bath and dinner, I'd gone straight to sleep the night before, crashing out on the vintage teak sofa in the living room, which was quite unlike me. Mr. Thorne's office had put me through my paces, in more ways than one!
As I parked my car along the side of the mansion, my nipples got hard in anticipation. I peered under my blouse at my nips, peering up like ripe raspberries from within my push-up bra.
One more day, I told myself. One more room to organize, then I'd be getting paid. Under my modest tan skirt and loose-fitting blouse, I wore pink underwear, the same shade of pink as my most private regions. I'd love to show my pink to Mr. Thorne, I thought. If only I was allowed.
Why couldn't he see me, anyway?
The best reason I could come up with was that Mr. Thorne had a girlfriend, and the staff had been instructed not to let any women near him. I knew how it was with powerful, rich men, and any sweet little piece of ass that got near them.
Governors were always having it off with housekeepers and interns. That the news about a governor having a love child would even be news was laughable. I was sure it happened constantly. And why wouldn't it?
Say there's some young woman who wants a little stability in her life. Maybe she makes the powerful man happy. Very happy. Powerful men are confident and smart, which makes them sexy, even if they don't have a lush head full of hair. A hot, young, sexually available woman is exactly what a powerful man needs to make himself even more powerful in the board room. He can drive a hard bargain in the board room, then come home and drive an even harder bargain with his lover.
I could be Mr. Thorne's lover, I thought as I grabbed my purse from the passenger seat. I could help him feel powerful.
Sure, I'd never seen his face, but I'd seen his muscular buttocks and his sweet, gorgeous, hard-working equipment. He could drive a hard bargain into me, all night long. I could make him very happy. It could even be a professional arrangement. I'm a professional organizer, and I could… organize his balls, for example, into my mouth.
I giggled at my little inside joke as I buzzed at the gate to be let into the side entrance.
Nobody answered the buzzer, and I was looking around for a step up, actually considering crawling over the fence—such was my attraction to the idea of Mr. Thorne—that when a man appeared on the other side of the gate, I shrieked with surprise.
He had tan skin and smoothly-shaved cheeks. He wore a hat to keep the morning sun out of his eyes… eyes that were a shade of brown-green that made my thighs weak and my knees buckle.
“I buzzed,” I said. (I know, I'm pretty quippy, right?)
“You have an appointment to see Mr. Thorne?” One
eyebrow went up.
“To see Grace.”
He opened the gate. “That explains everything.”
“What do you mean?” I took a sidelong look at his body, which appeared lean and muscular under the simple white T-shirt and jeans. Gardeners could be really hot, and they smelled like earth. I wondered if this gardener was actually as attractive as he seemed, or if my mind had been altered by the idea of Mr. Thorne, and I was in some sort of permanent arousal state.
“Mr. Thorne talks to me about things,” the man said.
“Really?”
He leaned in, looked both ways, and whispered to me. “He said he smelled pussy on his shirt. He took it out of the laundry and had me smell it. He told me to find the woman who'd been touching his shirt.”
I laughed to hide my discomfort. “Rich people are fucked up.”
He laughed heartily. “I'll say.” He pointed to the door. “Go on up to the house. Grace is in the kitchen, and the buzzer in there isn't very loud.” He gestured to his ear. “Ol' Grace's hearing isn't what it used to be.”
I stepped away, then turned back. For an instant, I imagined jumping up on the strong-looking gardener and wrapping my legs around his waist. He could kiss my neck and hike up my skirt while he unfastened those jeans, which had a lovely bulge in them.
“Yes, Miss?”
“Does Mr. Thorne have… a Mrs. Thorne? Or a girlfriend?”
The gardener chuckled. “You mean has he been tamed? The answer is no. He's all yours if you want him.”
I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment. Why did I have to be so obvious? Mr. Thorne was way out of my league. He was a billionaire, for crying out loud, and I was a college dropout from a small town. Guys like him dated supermodels and actresses. The gardener was more my speed.
I surveyed the man's package once more. Yes, the gardener was definitely my type. Oh, that mouth. Thick lips, the type you could suck on for days.
Before I embarrassed myself further, I thanked the gardener and ran up to the door.
Inside, I did find Grace in the kitchen, struggling to put stuffing into a turkey.
“Oh, good. You're here,” she said.
“Why are you fisting that poor bird?”
Grace snapped at me, “Because she likes it that way. Mind your own damn business.”
“Sorry, just making a little joke.”
Grace's face softened. “Right. Jokes. I remember those.” She sighed heavily.
“Did they move Thanksgiving up by a few months and nobody told me?”
Grace grabbed some more bread crumbs and jammed them into the bird's open orifice. “Mr. Thorne's been having unusual cravings.”
I leaned on the kitchen island—the island that was bigger than my entire kitchen. “What do you mean, unusual cravings?”
“Mr. Thorne has his struggles, like the rest of us. Nothing that millions of people don't deal with every day.”
I frowned at the turkey, wondering what it could be. Grace's lips tightened, so I knew she wouldn't be telling me.
“So, I'm done the walk-in closet and the office. What's the plan for day number three? Pantry?”
Grace grabbed a stalk of celery and crunched off a bite. After she finished chewing, she said, “I'd like you to do that feng shui thing in the bedroom.”
“Really?” My pulse throbbed between my legs at the mention of the word bedroom.
She said, “I want you to do the exact opposite of what you usually do.”
I studied her expression for clues, but found little to go on in her lightly-lined but still attractive face. She continued, “Your company makes rooms romantic and sexy, and I'd like you to do the opposite for Mr. Thorne's room. I don't care what you do. Move the bed, put it on a weird angle, put garlic in the light fixtures. I want that room two hundred percent less sexy.”
“I can do that,” I said nonchalantly. “All I need is an eight by ten photo of his mother.”
Grace nearly choked on the celery she was chewing. “No. No. We need to reduce the sexuality, not kill him.”
“I can do that,” I said confidently.
She washed off her hands and brought me up to the bedroom.
The room was, as expected, adjoining the walk-in closet. The door to the closet was open, so I took a quick peek at my recent handiwork. Yes, everything was perfectly organized. A place for everything and everything in its place, as it should be.
A sensation pulled at me, below my belly. I also have a place for something, yes I do.
“I'll need some privacy,” I told Grace. “The bedroom feng shui is more of an intuition thing.”
She nodded.
Intuition? Actually, it's more of a bullshit thing, but people love to get the story. Oh, I've read the books about feng shui, studied the diagrams. Put a mirror on this, have some fluffy pillows on that. Ninety percent of it is just common sense. I mean, who puts a cactus next to the bed?
“You have four hours,” she said. “Nobody will interrupt you. Mr. Thorne is off on business somewhere, and I'll be battling turkey and yams downstairs.”
“I may need ...”
She pointed to a toolbox that was already in the room. “You should have everything here to move whichever artworks and mirrors you must. Please be careful with this one.” She pointed to a painting that was thick with lush flowers, and strangely erotic, for a garden. “It's not a reproduction.”
“I'll be careful, plus we're insured,” I said.
“So are we, but this one has sentimental value for Mr. Thorne.”
“Oh.” I stared at the painting, wondering what it meant.
Grace backed out of the room and closed the door. The woman had the perfect name, because she really was the epitome of grace.
The bedroom, now, was another story.
The bedroom was the epitome of sex.
Not in a tacky way, like one of those Love Motels you see in foreign movies, rented by the hour to young couples not lucky enough to have even a compact car in which to get their freak on.
No, the bedroom was sexy in the way that only Egyptian Cotton with Infinity Thread Count can be. The duvet cover practically melted under my touch. I flopped on the bed and pressed my cheek against the pillow, careful not to contact the surface with my lips. I'd put on minimal makeup that morning, but I didn't want to mar the gorgeous linens with my pink lip gloss. It would be a crime!
I pulled one of the pillows between my knees and hugged another one. Breathing deeply, I ascertained that the linens had been changed that morning. I found no scent of a man, and, under the covers, none of those telltale hairs they leave behind.
I lay on my back and surveyed the sexy room.
Who was that girl on the bed?
Oh, it was me!
“Look at that, a mirror on the ceiling,” I said as I waved up at myself. “Hey, Lexie. Is that your real name? Sounds like sexy. Come on, you just made that name up.” I blew kisses up at myself. Damn, my face and body looked good from the ceiling down, with my dark hair fanned out around my head.
Obviously, the mirror over the bed had to go. Grace had left me a step ladder along with the tool box, but I didn't relish the idea of getting all sweaty, grunting to take down a mirror from the ceiling. The thing could be heavy, and it could even kill me! My untimely demise would certainly hamper my plans to spend that roll of money I was going to get as a bonus.
I could leave the mirror and just move the bed.
“Sounds like a plan,” I said to myself, and I got started rearranging furniture. I slipped off my shoes and left them in the corner.
I'd done a lot of unusual jobs in my three and a half years (I'd say seven years only if I was trying to impress a new client) as a professional organizer. In the early days, I helped hoarders—which is a little like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic, if you ask me, but… to each their own! I always figure if they're not harming themselves or others, some people simply enjoy having and rearranging their stuff. The only problem was, they always
seemed so disappointed at the end of a job, either because you made some progress, or because you didn't.
My boss, Suzanne, upped our rates about two years into the business, which weeded out a lot of the hoarders. We still got a few, but they were the richer ones, who had entire rooms for gift wrapping. My third-most unusual job was organizing a gift wrap room. It took an entire week. No lie.
My second-most unusual job was for a guy who videotaped everything. We came up with an organization system for his physical copies of recordings, and a digital backup as well. That may not sound too strange, but he videotaped the two of us working the entire two days. I imagined some future organizer filing away the recordings of me, filing away the recordings of the previous organizer.
Make a bedroom less sexy? That was definitely my most unusual job. Number one on the list.
Why did Grace hire me to do such a thing?
The gardener had said Mr. Thorne had no wife or girlfriend, so it wasn't at the request of a lover.
As I rearranged the reading chairs, two-seater sofa, and bed to be less cozy, I concocted a theory. Mr. Thorne was a business man, and single. On the phone the day before, he'd said he had just closed a billion-dollar deal. Therefore, he probably had a lot of business things on his mind, and didn't want any distractions in his life.
That must have been why he called a phone sex line, and seemed to be a regular. I could understand that. Why take a risk on dating someone and trying to seduce them, only to find out after all that time that you're not compatible? Something quick and simple like a phone sex line made sense.
I rolled up a red area rug and shoved it in a linen closet, then pushed the bed so that two sides were against the walls, which was a no-brainer. Immediately, the room was less sexy.
In feng shui, both sides of the bed should be easily accessible. You have to pity people in tiny apartments, who don't have the option. Even with mirrors in the right spots, candles, and live, soft plants, their sex lives will suffer. One person always feels trapped by the other, and not in the good way.
A little trapping and constriction can feel good, I thought as I held my wrists together behind my back and leaned over a round table I'd moved far away from the window.