Training the Receptionist

by Juniper Bell

  “Oh, yeah,” said Simon.

  Boom. Both men hammered their cocks home at the same moment. I nearly blacked out as a shattering orgasm crashed through me. I didn’t know which one set me off. It didn’t matter. We were all one. Ethan, Simon, and me. One being on one blissed-out joyride. Anchored between their two muscular bodies, I let myself go. Surrendered. Soared free. Died, and came back to life.

  After, they released me from the hook, took off the blindfold and helped me into a chair. Simon rubbed my neck and shoulders. I felt limp and a little sore, but most of all, at peace with the world. I looked at my two bosses. Simon, bare-chested and brooding behind me, and Ethan, breathing hard, zipping his pants. I caught sight of my gray pinstripe power suit crumpled on the floor and smiled to myself. Putting on that suit didn’t give me any power. No, the power came when I took off all the armor. When I let myself fly.

  I wiped the tears off my face. What would they think of their receptionist crying on the job? Ethan’s little smile and Simon’s gentle neck rub told me they understood. I’d never felt so connected to two people in my life.

  The three of us lounged in post-fuck zone-out for a little while, then I stirred myself into action.

  “Well.” I’ve never been one to let other people call all the shots. “What now? The training period’s over, right?”

  “It’s safe to say you aced the interview. I’d say you’ve completed the probationary period to our satisfaction.” Ethan’s intimate tone gave me the shivers. Simon, pulling on his shirt, strolled over to lean on the desk next to Ethan. I wondered about all the things they’d done together, to each other. The things they’d do to me. Oh, the possibilities… I squelched the thought before I got all revved up again. I had business to complete.

  “In that case, I should let you both know I’ve decided to accept the position of receptionist at the firm of Cowell and Dirk.”

  Ethan tossed Simon an amused, ice blue look.

  Simon shrugged. “I told you she was one of a kind.” He winked at me, and I glowed back at him. Strangely enough, I felt closer than ever to him. Or maybe it’s not so strange. What do I know? I’m just a girl from Long Island.

  “I have to hand it to you, Simon,” said Ethan. “You’ve done well. Better than I would have done.”

  “Coming from you, quite a compliment.”

  I rolled my eyes. My two bosses could stand around and stroke each other all night, but I needed my rest. “If that’s it for today, I’ll see you both at nine tomorrow morning.”

  I strolled across the office toward my clothes, knowing I had the complete attention of both men. It felt good. It felt powerful. As I bent naked over my pile of clothes, I secretly smiled. Not only had I found my sexual destiny, but I’d lucked into the job of my dreams—a job that was never going to get boring. I was Cowell & Dirk’s receptionist. And everyone knows a well-trained receptionist is hard to find.

  About the Author

  To learn more about Juniper Bell, please visit www.JuniperBell.com. Send her an email at juniper@juniperbell.com or join her Yahoo! Newsletter group at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/JuniperBell. You can also find her on Twitter as @AuthorJuniper.

  Look for these titles by Juniper Bell

  Now Available:

  Doll

  From wicked lust to unexpected love, it’s an exhilarating ride…with a little kink on the side!

  La Queue-de-Cheval

  © 2008 Michèle de Lully

  From wicked lust to unexpected love, it’s an exhilarating ride…with a little kink on the side!

  Angie Forester has a simple plan: Find a wealthy husband and enjoy a life of luxury. But when her plan leads her to Bathshire Stables, things get…complicated.

  Being sold as a pony-girl isn’t quite what she expected, even if it does amount to basically the same thing—trading her body to a rich man for a lot of money. The kinky sex is just an unexpected perk.

  Then fireman Jack Grayson takes the reins. He’s part-time groomsman, full-time sexy…and big-time poor. The absurdly handsome fireman has everything she wants except the financial security she craves.

  But Angie’s heart has other ideas about the value of money—and love.

  Warning: This title contains the following: explicit sex, anal sex, bondage & discipline, pony-play.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for La Queue-de-Cheval:

  Everything tasted bland. Angie rarely remembered the ordinary days of her week, but these days stood out with their total lack of distinction. The clothes she wore ran together in unnoticeable colors, each day’s outfit the same as the last. None of them were verdant silk corsets sprinkled with gems and bound in scarlet ribbons. The food she ate was tasteless. No watercress and paté here. The men and women around her bored her to tears, their conversations about movies or telly shows or office gossip as dull and heavy as lead dropped on wet dirt. Not a single mention of whippings, races, or wicked gold rings tied off in strings.

  Just when she thought she would drown in the silence, she felt an electric tingle on her shoulder. Turning around in her chair, she felt her heart pound into life again.

  Jack Greyson stood there, a box overflowing with paper in his arms.

  “I was wondering, Miss Forester, if you could give me a hand with these.”

  He hung his head like an unruly schoolboy asking the pretty girl in the class to do his homework. Angie wanted to sniff and turn away, but anything was better than this grey existence. Even the unbearable Jack Greyson was better. Feeling annoyed and embarrassed was better than feeling nothing.

  “What seems to be the problem?” Why did her voice sound so high and weak?

  “I don’t quite know what to make of them.” He put the box down on the edge of her desk, and picked a paper at random off the top. “Like this one. What the devil is supposed to go here?” Jabbing his thick finger at a spot on the form, he waved it at her in frustration.

  “It’s quite simple, Mr. Greyson. This is a stroke-C situation, as you can see from the boxes ticked here and here.” She took the form and began filling it out, grateful for something to distract her attention from his nearness. “Much less complicated than a J-9. How could you know about J-9 but not about this?”

  “Well. See. There was a fellow, down at the station. Had a bit of bad luck with a backdraft in a chemical plant. We all spent a lot of time helping him with the paperwork.” His confession was not in the least bit contrite.

  “So you don’t actually know anything about accounting, do you?” She had spoken in a hushed tone, lowering her voice so it would not carry more than a few feet. She hadn’t chosen to do this. It had just happened.

  “Not as such…no.”

  Emptying the box would take hours. They couldn’t do it here, in front of everyone.

  “I’ll come up to your office. You go on back and ring Mrs. Smythe, and tell her you need me to come upstairs for a moment.”

  The days of the week had passed without her noticing them, but the five minutes she had to wait for Mrs. Smythe to come out of her office, glaring and unhappy, to send Angie upstairs, was interminable.

  Riding the elevator to the second floor left her as giddy as a schoolgirl skipping class. She’d never been to the executive level before. The surge and fall of her emotions amplified the rising and sinking of the elevator.

  The second floor was remarkably different from the first. These corridors were meticulously polished hardwood, with office doors of ornate gold trim and frosted glass. The sheer elegance of it all was as radiant as Bathshire Stables.

  Walking through the silent corridors felt like a dream, the same heavy, throbbing quality that the memories of last weekend had taken on in her mind. She began to entertain the terrifying idea that she might turn into Jack’s office only to find a line of grinning men waiting to take their turns on her.

  When she came to his door, she opened it meekly, quietly, as if to slip in unnoticed. But she did open it, instead of running away.

 
Half-expecting him to be dressed in livery and wielding a riding crop, she was briefly disoriented to see him leaning over his desk, poring over columns of figures.

  “Hello, Mr. Greyson.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at her formality, but returned it.

  “Very good, Miss Forester. I think we’re supposed to start with these. They’re quite pink and loud and someone suggested they might be important.”

  A stack of overdue notices occupied the left corner of his desk, lording it over the plain white sheets scattered across the desktop.

  “Very well, Mr. Greyson.” She had to go around the desk now, and lean over his shoulder. Her position was precarious. One wrong move and she would collide with his massive frame. With her breasts straining forward, and the curve of her legs making a natural guide, any contact would be in a frightfully sensitive place for her. His shoulder, elbow, or even hand could, with the most innocent excuse, make the most intimate contact. At any second. All he had to do was startle, or turn quickly, or lean back in his chair.

  Angie realized she was holding her breath, waiting for it to happen. She shook herself back into mobility.

  A wisp of hair slipped over her ear and brushed against the side of his face. Hurriedly she snatched it away and shoved it back into place.

  “Miss Forester, if you’d like a moment to regain control of your coiffure…” The words were strictly proper, but the light in his eyes was as salacious as Spanish salsa.

  “My apologies, Mr. Greyson. It won’t happen again.” She’d be damned if she gave him the satisfaction.

  His gaze wandered lower, and she instinctively put her hand over her décolletage. Blushing, she remembered he had already seen everything she had to offer.

  “I like you better with your clothes off.”

  His words hung in the dry office air like the echo of a brass band in a library. Had he really just said that?

  Doing her best Mrs. Smythe imitation, she poured disappointment and ice-cold politeness into her voice. “I’m sorry, Mr. Greyson, I didn’t quite catch that.” Any ordinary man would have crumpled under the implicit threat of a sexual harassment charge.

  Jack Greyson was apparently not an ordinary man. “Just a compliment, Miss Forester,” he said with the perfect illusion of innocence, all proper business again. “But we should get started on this lot, don’t you think?”

  She leaned forward again and seized stack of papers. Only after that did she realize that she had obeyed his command without hesitation. If he ordered her to undress and dance naked on his desk, her tongue would lash him with scorn while her hands obeyed, unbuttoning her blouse, unhooking her spaghetti-thin black brassiere, sliding the zipper down the side of her skirt so that it fell to the floor, and pulling her panties off after it.

  “An imposing lot, isn’t it.” His tone was sympathetic, as if the papers in her hand were the problem. She had frozen, transfixed by the erotic images in her head. Waiting for him to command her like the Lord had commanded his pony. “Let me help,” he said, and took the stack from her limp grasp. His rough fingers brushed against the edge of her hands like fire.

  Touch me again.

  Thankfully, she had only thought it, not said it. Every inch of her flesh burned to be touched, firmly grasped, cruelly squeezed for his pleasure and entertainment.

  Tell me to take my clothes off.

  The voice in her head would not shut up, so she spoke over it. “We should start with the oldest ones.”

  We should start by touching my naked body everywhere.

  Complete madness. Her hand was shaking as she rifled through the papers he held. “This one is two weeks old. It has to be done now.”

  I have to be fucked now.

  “Put your hands here—I mean, put your initials here, and here, and here.” She jabbed at the paper, unnerved by her slip.

  Slip your hands under my skirt.

  The echo threatened to overwhelm her, so she focused her gaze on the paper. She could see his thick, powerful hands wrapped around the absurdly thin pen as he dashed off incomprehensible scrawls where she indicated. The strength in his hands was palpable. She could not stop imagining them under her clothes, groping at will, prodding demandingly at her tender openings, like living things with a will and a hunger all their own.

  “And then what?” He seemed genuinely curious, as if the mysteries of insurance forms were a frustrating but intriguing artifact, like a Rubik’s cube or one of those silly metal 3D puzzles.

  And then fuck me until I can’t walk.

  Jesus. Had she said that out loud?

  “And then sign here, and enter the collating code there.”

  And then enter me, here, there, anywhere you like.

  It was like a full-blown porno tape in her head. The grunts and squeals and dirty language just wouldn’t shut up.

  New Year’s resolutions have never looked so good.

  Make Mine Midnight

  © 2009 Annmarie McKenna

  New Year’s Eve. The party is rockin’, and Claire is in her usual spot holding up the wall. It’s all right. She’s much happier scribbling in her trusty little notebook than mingling. Especially since those notes turn into the sexy erotic romances she pens in secret. Those two gorgeous gods across the room are perfect hero material and…oh dear, are they headed her way?

  Mason and Hunter know she won’t remember them as the scrawny geeks they were in high school. She also doesn’t know they’ve been lusting after her for ten long years, waiting for her to meet a man and have a normal relationship. They’re through waiting. The time has come to make their move—and show her exactly how much they’ve changed.

  One night in the middle of a Mason/Hunter manwich, and Claire has enough research material to fill a hundred notebooks. Good thing she’s got OfficeMax on speed dial to order more. Except suddenly her two hunks have this crazy idea that keeping her is selfish. Selfish? She may be mousy, but this mouse is about to roar…

  Warning: Threesomes! Light bondage, blindfolds, breakfast made by two hot men who used to be geeks. Parades, cotton candy, more sex, and convincing said men they are WRONG and threesomes are RIGHT.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Make Mine Midnight:

  “I want the whole scoop later, sweetie,” Paul called after them as Mason and Hunter practically frogmarched her down the hall to the stairwell. There were no slow feet, no stopping or pausing, just a straight, quick arrow to the stairs. Two short flights down had them on the next floor where they proceeded to continue down the hall like they’d done so a million times. Like she had so often. Before she could say a word, they stopped right in front of 13A.

  Interesting since she’d never given the directions. They should have had to ask where she lived, not known how to take her right to her front door.

  Her suspicion rose again. “How did you know where I lived?”

  “Paul.” Hunter felt her jeans pockets and victoriously extracted her set of keys.

  “I knew that man had a big mouth, but damn. He told you everything, didn’t he?”

  “Don’t get mad at the middleman, sweetheart.” Hunter pecked her cheek as he fumbled the key in the lock then pushed open the door to her place.

  “I still want to know what’s going on.”

  “Later,” Mason growled in her ear. Literally growled. “Time for talk later. We need to see you, want to touch you, taste you.”

  Claire wondered if it were possible for one’s heart to actually explode. The thing was beating so hard surely it was close.

  “And what if I don’t want to do those things?” The act of defiance pretty much fell flat. She knew it based on their twin predatory grins.

  “If you really didn’t want this, you’d go inside and slam the door in our faces. One thing we remember for certain about you is your stubbornness.” Hunter turned serious and touched her cheek. “If there’s anything we do that scares you or you don’t want, just tell us. We’ll back off.”

  They would. She didn�
��t know how she knew it, but she did. They wouldn’t hurt her. Maybe leave her heart crushed in a million pieces when they left, but they wouldn’t physically hurt her. They weren’t that kind of men. Not ten years ago, and she could see they still weren’t.

  What could she say to that? She nodded and stepped inside, letting them follow her in. Not want this? Pfft. The door sounded with what seemed like an ominous click and then Hunter spoke again.

  “Take off the shirt, Claire. I can’t wait to see you.” Mason’s hands fisted and she wondered if he were trying not to pounce on her. His expression clearly showed he wanted to do just that.

  She swallowed and reached for the hem of her shirt, revealing inch by inch of smooth, creamy skin in an almost provocative dance. Where her inner vixen suddenly came from she didn’t know and didn’t particularly care. When her bellybutton appeared, Mason dropped to his knees and placed a kiss on the indentation. The act startled her and Claire bumped back into the wall. Mason took advantage. He held her hips and kissed a circle around her navel, tickling her into a rush of giggles.

  Beside her, Hunter groaned. Because he wanted to do the same thing? Damn, she wished she had a better handle on all things sex in real life, not just in the written word.

  A moment later, Mason backed off, a silly grin on his face. “Sorry.”

  She had a feeling he wasn’t. “Right.”

  “Off.” The impatience she remembered Hunter having shone through in spectacular fashion.

  “Geez. It’s not my fault I was interrupted.” Claire shimmied the shirt up, reaching her arms to the ceiling to remove it, but before she could take it completely off, Hunter grabbed her bound arms and kept them raised above her head. As a result, her face was covered by the material as well. “Hey.”

  “Stay.” Hunter had been reduced to one-word grunts, which made a thrill go through her.

  A mouth latched on to one of her silk-bra-covered nipples, puckering the bud tight before the cup was pulled below her breast. Fingers manipulated her other mound. Claire’s knees wobbled and someone pressed her into the wall.