by Sable Jordan
Excerpt:
At the end of the hall sits Eva, Mr. Temple’s personal assistant. She’s a gorgeous twenty-something, with long brown hair, innocent brown eyes, and fresh skin. Her predecessors looked much the same. I secretly think he has a thing for her. That she’s his third secretary in as many months leads me to believe he’s had a thing for most of them.
“Hi, Eva. I see Temple’s still in his meeting, huh?”
She nods, motions to a chair opposite her. “Would you like to have a seat?”
I make a show of checking my watch—ten on the nose—and hear his steady gait approaching behind me. I’ve worked with Temple the last year. Even dampened by the carpet I know what his footfalls sound like.
“Meeting ran a little late,” he says, extends his hand as I turn. We shake, ever professional, and he walks to the large wooden door that separates his office from his minions.
I follow.
“I know you’re busy, Miss Hayes. Come on in,”—to Eva—“hold my calls, please.”
We enter his domain. A large, polished desk sits focal to the city line visible through the building’s grand translucent façade. It’s fitting. This is the boss’s office, and the power on the set is tangible. A few comfortable chairs line the wall and to the left is a personal bathroom, the door drawn shut.
Mr. Temple—Jackson in private—pulls a chair to his desk for me. I remove my coat and hang it across the back of the seat, toss my purse on the tabletop. Coffee gets settled on a coaster beside and I turn, bend at the waist to open the storage bin I’ve dragged along from the car. The skirt rides up, revealing a hint of lacey detailing at the tops of my sheer thigh-high hose.
Jackson inhales.
I pretend not to notice.
Two files rest atop boxes stowed inside and I remove them both, handing the first to him and laying the second on the desk. I open it, mess the colorful pages filled with pie charts and flow charts and paragraphs of carefully researched data about a product that does not exist. He does the same.
The stage is dressed, the action begins…
I walk around the desk. He’s forgotten to put away the pictures of his wife and kids. They’re a cute family; his three girls all blonde heads in ponytails and bright smiles. I wonder what he thinks about me seeing them, if it even matters.
I guide Jackson down into his plush leather chair, sink to my knees on the floor before him. This is a difficult achievement, the narrow skirt doesn’t afford much movement, but he likes it this way. Likes seeing the form fitting costumes that hug the curves of my hips and ass.
He unbuckles his belt and unzips his suit pants, freeing his sizeable cock. I let him do the liberty with the condom. He prefers to stroke himself stiff while I watch with greedy eyes, and then, when I’m salivating for a taste, he feeds his dick in measured bites into my waiting mouth. Though the location has changed, the scene’s been like this the entire time this affair has endured, and I imagine it will continue in the exact same vein for a long time to come.
With sultry eyes I watch him unroll the latex down his shaft; watch him fist the heavy rod in one hand while the other grips my hair. He slowly eases just the head of his dick onto my tongue. I lick it lightly, round and round the outside with the flat of my tongue, laving at the crown before my lips cover it whole.
He groans, feeds me a little more.
This game of hide-the-cock continues slowly with Jackson setting the pace. Each time I take more of him in he pauses to savor the sensation at the new depth. Finally, when he thinks my mouth is full, he begins to lift on my hair. I stop him, clenching my hands on his thighs and forcing more of him into my throat. He knows I’m going to, I know he wants me to, but he’s too much of a gentleman to do it himself.
“Oh, shit.”
Know your cue…
I pull back and push forward again, encouraging him with moans of appreciation for his massive dick. It throbs in my mouth like it has a heart of its own—thump, thump, thump—eager to drop the load he’s been carrying.
His hips move, just a tiny bit, and I bob a little faster before releasing him with a wet pop. Hand wrapped around the base, I stroke up on the shaft and bear down with my mouth. Jackson loves it; his hands rake through my hair and force my head down. He moves me faster, my hand moves faster, the slick, sloppy sounds of my mouth and soft little hums of delight spurring him on. He grows harder, is right on the verge of exploding, almost—
“Mr. Temple, line one.”