by Jamie Knight
“Don’t make a mess on my floor while I’m having my way with you,” I warn, and then I’m inside her.
She presses back against me, demanding the full length of my shaft. She feels amazing. I tease her at first, sliding in and out of her wet pussy ever so slowly…
“If you don’t start fucking me for real, we’re going to have a problem.” Her head’s down on the desk, but she’s no limp toy to be used. “They call it a quickie for a reason.”
“Whatever you say.”
I start to speed up my thrusts, locking my hands into a strong grip around her hips.
“That’s more like it!” she manages between deep moans of enjoyment.
“Fuck yeah it is.” I twine my fingers through her hair and pull - she loves that, and so do I - and she stops talking.
I’m close already. It’s hard not to be, with her. I thrust a few more times, then press as deep as I can into her, grip her hips hard enough to leave bruises...
…and cum. The office disappears, she disappears, and about thirty seconds later, I open my eyes. I’m lying on the bed, cum splashed on my belly. I grab a tissue from the nightstand and clean myself up.
Jesus, you’re kind of sad, Wesley. Jerking off at home thinking about a fantasy with a make-believe woman that happens at the office? Is that really the best you can do? Come on.
I hate that I know that’s right. As fun as strong blonde woman is, she’s imaginary, and I need something real. That’s when it hits me.
“A vacation. I need a vacation. Somewhere new, fresh, somewhere that isn’t this town!”
I grab my phone and call my secretary’s line. It’s Saturday, she won’t answer - but I’m not waiting to do this. “Hey, Charlene, it’s me. Listen, I’m going to be out of the office this week. Taking some vacation time. Not sure where, exactly, yet…just a vacation though. I’ll see you in a week.”
Well then. A vacation it is.
Chapter 6
Mariah
The interview goes south fast. It’s the first promising one I’ve gotten in a week – two other ones were duds – and I’m desperate for it to turn into a job… but not this desperate.
“Put your dick away, asshole.” I stare across the desk at the scrawny white dude doing the ‘interviewing.’ He’s standing up, his pants are unzipped, and he’s got that predatory, ‘you know you want it’ look on his face that so many women, myself included, have seen a dozen times too many.
“What’d you say?” The guy (Seth, I think is how he introduced himself?), looks at me quizzically.
“You heard me. I’m not sucking your dick so I can maybe get a job in the mailroom. On the other hand, if you’d like to pay me for the beej you clearly so desperately want, we can talk. ‘Hashtag Sex Work Is Real Work,’ you prick.”
Just then, the door to the office opens, and an older woman walks in. “Oh! Justin, what are you doing in my office?”
The fact that this guy’s real name is Justin combined with the expression on her face tell me pretty clearly that I’m fucked. Fortunately, so is he.
“So much for the side hustle, hey Justin?” I ask. The dude looks terrified now. Good. I turn my attention to the older woman, who, it now clicks into place, must be the real S. Goodwyn whose nameplate is on the door.
“Your assistant was just interviewing me for a job that I’m guessing doesn’t even exist. I don’t even want to know how many times he’s turned your office into a Casting Couch.”
Goodwyn looks appalled, and to her credit, doesn’t hesitate a second after surveying the whole scene. “Justin, get the hell out of my office. You’re fired. And don’t think I won’t make sure your next place of potential employment hears about this shit.”
Justin’s practically frozen in place, unable to speak. “Get out!” she snaps again, and off he goes like someone just stuck his finger in a socket.
“I am so, so sorry about this,” Goodwyn says, with a mix of fury and mortification on her face. “We didn’t even have a position available. But,” she adds, apparently having an idea striking her, “One did just open up. What’s your name?”
Relief floods my body, and I let out a half-laugh. “Mariah. Mariah Harper.”
“Wait. Mariah Harper? As in the Harper Realtor Company?”
I wasn’t expecting her to come right out and ask that, but I probably should have. The real estate game in the city, as my father put it, is “immensely competitive. Some businesses are dog-eat-dog; ours is wolves and bears tearing each other apart.” Shit.
“Yes. He’s my father.” I level my gaze at her.
She meets it, and her eyes are steely again as she crosses the room to sit behind her desk.
“I’m sorry, dear. That’s going to be a problem. You must know that your father’s company is our largest competitor, and handing a position as sensitive as this one to his daughter…well, I’m sure you can imagine the issues that would cause.”
I take a deep breath to keep the tears out of my voice and replace them with anger. “So you’ll hire an assistant who I can only assume is a serial harasser, but you won’t even consider me? I don’t work for my father.”
Goodwyn blinks, and her look softens. “I truly am sorry for that. As you can see, I rectified the situation immediately. Our company does not tolerate harassment. But we also have a business to run - and your presence could very well seriously damage that.”
She’s right about all this, and I know it. She did the right thing firing her assistant on the spot… and unfortunately, I can understand why she thinks she’s right about not hiring me to replace him. I want to fight her, but I can’t think of any way to do so.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Justin walking by with a box in his arms.
“I understand,” I tell her. “Thanks for the interview.
Goodwyn frowns. I can tell she feels bad; but it’s not her fault. “All right. Best of luck to you,” she says, probably wondering why I’m not working for my dad.
I duck out of the office, setting my sights on Justin’s retreating back. I soon catch up to him and race ahead to the door, making sure not to hold it open for him. Once I’m outside, I turn around to see him pausing, box in hand, on the other side of the door, as if wondering whether he’ll have to put the box down to get out of the building.
“Karma’s a bitch,” I mouth to him through the door.
It’s not as if I got him back by doing the same thing he did to me – nor would I want to – but at least I was rewarded by getting to see a little justice in action before I was on my way.
It takes exactly four steps from the sidewalk to the subway for me to start rethinking everything I just did in that office building. I should’ve pushed harder for that job, or argued more, or threatened to sue, or something! Anything.
But no, here I am on the street again, leaving my fifth failed interview in three days. Maybe Dad was right - maybe I’m not ready.
“No.” I stop on the sidewalk, muttering softly to myself. “You can do this. You’re not a quitter. You didn’t quit when you were eleven and that kid down the street threw a stick into your bicycle spokes, did you? No, you soaked him with a hose every day he left his house for a week.”
That memory, at least, makes me smile.
It’s not a long walk back to the motel where I’ve been staying ever since I very ceremoniously left my father’s house. The place is called the Cityscape Motel, which is a total lie. I’m in a room on the top floor, and my view so far consists of a concrete wall and a single window, the shades of which are always drawn.
“Ugh.” I’m almost out of clean clothes. The blouse-and-skirt combo I’m wearing right now is my last real ‘business’ outfit. Not that it matters much, since I don’t have any more interviews set up.
Maybe I should just walk in to all the real estate offices I can find, I think, or drop in on an open house and convince the realtor showing the place that I’m indispensable and that he should hire me immediately. Right, by doing wha
t? Refilling the cookie plate?
“If that’s what it takes.” I’m only talking to myself, but I guess that’s fine, since I’m the one who needs to hear my pep talk.
The hotel’s elevator is incredibly old, with one of those wrought-iron sliding gates instead of a door. As it creaks and groans its way up to the sixth floor, it hits me that I’m in both a literal and metaphorical box.
I only took one of Dad’s credit cards, in an effort to prove that I didn’t need unlimited resources and figuring I’d be able to survive on my own once I landed a job. That was two weeks ago.
Two weeks of staying in this crappy motel, eating mostly microwave dinners, working out in the tiny ‘gym,’ and dreading the day I’d have to use their sorry excuse for a laundry room. Now, I’m halfway to the credit limit on the card, I’ve gone on six failed interviews, and I’m out of clean clothes.
I honestly thought that getting a job would be way easier and faster than this. I’m not sure what to do next, but I know I can’t give up. I can’t let Dad be right - and I sure as hell won’t let Charles be right, let alone be my husband.
I flop on the bed and try to ignore the thin cloud of dust that rises around me.
“Hey, at least if I get murdered here they won’t need to bother with that chalk dust thing,” I say to no one in particular.
I lay here for a while, doing nothing. Finally, I check the time. It’s only eight o’clock in the evening, and I feel too awake to try and sleep, but too exhausted and listless from the day to do much of anything productive.
This is ridiculous.
Interning for Dad’s company, I got used to eighteen-hour days, either in the office watching him negotiate a tough deal, or out on the road when he travelled to show some of the higher-end houses to clients in person. Now here I am, wanting to call it quits after a handful of bad interviews?
Granted, that last one was a doozy. It was the single worst interview experience I’ve ever had, but still. Bouncing back is a necessity, I remind myself. I can’t give up, can’t go back. If I do, I’ll regret it.
So, let’s start small. I’ll do something simple.
Like… the laundry.
Chapter 7
Mariah
Steeling myself, I gather up the clothes I’ve scattered around the hotel room over the last few weeks and throw them into the mash hamper that the hotel (incredibly) has provided, and that I’ve stared at as it’s hung on the back of the bathroom door every day until now before dropping my clothes on the floor.
I really didn’t want to have to do this, but here goes nothing. It’s time to face reality, and my reality is that I’ve been at this hotel long enough to need to wash clothes.
Hefting the hamper and the quarters I’ve scavenged from my purse, I head down the hallway to the cramped laundry room, now just wearing the XXXL Bugs Bunny t-shirt I sleep in. It’s so long it goes to my knees. I throw my clothes in the machine, which looks (if it’s possible) even older than the elevator.
Only when I see that someone’s accidentally left their detergent behind do I realize that I don’t have any. I thought for sure this place would have one of those dispensers that guests can buy necessities from. I guess they don’t like making extra money.
Darn – there’s no way to actually wash these clothes without detergent. But I’m in the zone now, and a little problem like that won’t slow me down. Stealing a look down the hallway to be sure the coast is clear, I snag the abandoned container of detergent from atop the washer and pour a healthy amount into the machine, on top of my clothes.
Closing the lid, I take my best guess as to which settings to use, and feed my quarters to the machine. It kicks into gear with a rumble approximating a steam engine, but it does work. The low, rumbling vibration I feel when I rest my hand on top of it reminds me of something else I haven’t done in awhile, so, with time to kill, I head back to my room.
Rifling through my mostly empty suitcase, I grab one of the few essentials I took from the house when I left but haven’t made use of yet: my vibrator.
“Did you miss me, George?” I ask the purple silicone rabbit vibrator.
He is, of course, named after George Clooney. Most of my friends laughed when I told them that - sure, they all had nicknames for their vibrators (or if they were rich, their wands) too, but they were all some variation on Chris (Hemsworth, Evans, and on) or occasionally Timberlake.
But, like I told them, I’ve been into men like Clooney ever since I saw him in Oceans 11. Suave, smart, badass, the best at whatever he was doing… I assumed that expertise extended to the bedroom. It certainly does when it comes to my fantasy version of George, anyway.
I’ve never really found myself interested in younger men, either in fantasy or reality. Most are too immature, some are too inexperienced, and all of them expect me to put them before work, which, as I’ve found myself explaining over and over again, is never going to happen.
That may be one of the reasons I’m still a virgin, but it doesn’t bother me. George does the job just fine, and even better, he doesn’t insist on talking about feelings afterwards or wonder why I work so much.
Flopping back on the bed, I pull off my baggy shirt and kick off my panties. Staring at the ceiling, I try to slow my breath just a bit and clear my head of all the crap that’s bouncing around in there. I’ve earned a chance to relax and enjoy myself for a bit. To indulge in this fantasy.
I’m standing at the window of my future office, which I imagine to be thirty floors up overlooking the skyline of the city. The sun’s setting. It’s my favorite time of day. The next few hours will be quiet around the office; it’s when I get the most done.
There’s a knock at the door. “Come in,” I call out, wondering who it is who is still here working. The door swings open.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, staring at the man in the doorway. His name escapes me, but we had a meeting earlier today with his firm. “I turned down your offer already. Who let you back up here?”
The man smiles. He’s older, but still cut - I had to remind myself to focus on the business side of things more than once in our meeting earlier. “Don’t worry. I’m not here for the deal - I’m here for you.”
This makes me turn around and face him. He’s closed the door of my office and is standing right in front of me. “What are you talking about?”
“I admire you. For more than one reason.” He’s touching me now, running his hands up and down my arms and shoulders. I quiver under his touch, but I don’t pull away. It feels…good.
In real life, on my back, eyes closed, I run my hands over my skin. From my collarbone, down across my breasts, nipples not quite hard yet… over my stomach, until I reach my hips.
In my fantasy, his hands are on my hips now. “I want this. I want you. Do you want me?”
Soft as the rustle of silk sheets over skin, I answer, “Yes.”
“Good.”
His grip tightens, and my pulse races at the way he touches me. He unzips my dress, letting it drop to the floor. One hand is around my neck, the other slips between my legs, caressing my already damp panties.
In reality, with one hand, I play with my nipples, switching from right to left, squeezing and pinching. My other hand is between my thighs, teasing the lips of my pussy.
In my fantasy, his lips trace a path across the skin of my neck as he plants kisses down to my collarbone. I moan softly as he unhooks my bra and I let it drop to the floor. I turn to face him, and we kiss for the first time. Deep, passionate, almost aggressive.
I drop to my knees as he unbuckles his belt. His cock is half-hard already, and pulses with excitement at my touch. A soft moan escapes his lips as I press mine to the head of his shaft. A light flick of the tongue, and his hands are in my hair. I massage his length with my hand, thrilling as he grows larger under my attentions.
In real life, my fingers are already wet with my own juices. I pull them reluctantly away from my slit, and bring them up to my mout
h. I slip two fingers between my lips and suck gently on them to start.
In my fantasy, his cock is fully erect now, and I take full advantage of that, gripping his shaft at the base and pushing his head into my mouth. He exhales with pleasure, and I bob my head up and down along his length. I ram his head into the back of my throat, producing spontaneous gagging noises and thick saliva that I don’t even try to stifle.
I look up at him, tears glistening in my eyes, mouth wrapped around his cock. He entwines his hands even deeper in my hair, pulling tight and producing an exhilarating pain that only makes me want him more. He pushes my head down with just the right amount of force, and I open my throat to him, taking his full length deep into my throat.
He groans, and I smile around his cock, adding in a few licks to the balls for good measure. He stands me up, pulls off my panties, undresses himself the rest of the way, then leads me behind my desk and sits in my chair.
In real life, I press the head of my vibrator against my wet lips, easing it between the, my body parts around it, practically demanding its entrance. With barely any effort, I push it inside me, resting the secondary ‘rabbit’ ears against my clit…and press the ‘on’ button.
In my fantasy, I straddle him on the chair, relishing the feeling of him coming to rest inside me. We move in rhythm with each other, me moving up and down on his shaft, him pulsing his hips.
In real life, I tap the vibrator again, shifting the low, gentle hum to a pulsing, aggressive rhythm - my favorite setting. I ease it in and out, just a few inches at a time, teasing and pleasing myself. Somewhere off beyond my closed eyelids, I can hear myself moaning loudly. Good…I deserve this, I think, returning to my fantasy.
Wrapping his arms around me, he lifts me up, still inside me, and deposits me on my back on the desk. My legs are up in the air, ankles crossed behind his head as he thrusts, his hands reaching out to massage my breasts, tweaking my nipples. He pinches them both between his thumbs and forefingers at the same time he plunges deeper into me than ever before, and my orgasm begins to build.