My sweet girl. She’s here.
I grin and arm myself with my remote control, pressing the button that’ll prompt my screens to appear. They take forever, but I don’t worry about her walking in, even though she knows the code. She’ll wait for me. Like she always does.
The screens kick in and I sigh when she appears on the main centred television, her beautiful petite body dressed in black capri trousers and a crisp white shirt tucked in neatly, her hair cascading all over her shoulders. If I was that way inclined, I’d kick my feet up on my desk, recline in my chair, and just sit here for the rest of the day watching her. But I’m not up for littering my desk with my feet, and no amount of therapy will solve that. So I rest my head against the back of the chair, tapping the remote control on the arm and smiling when my stare drops to her cute feet. Today’s colour: coral, and although it kind of takes the edge off the elegant formal style of her work outfit, it doesn’t matter. Never has, never will. My girl must have fifty pairs, and I know more will be added. By me. I just can’t help it. Every time I see a new colour, I find myself in the store and walking out with another pair, sometimes two, or, on the odd occasion, three. Her face each time I present her with a new hue is beyond the realms of pleasure. In fact, I think I’ve become mildly obsessed by hunting down every colour on the Converse spectrum. I frown to myself. Mildly? OK, so I search Google every now and then, and maybe reserve a day here and there especially for Converse hunting. That doesn’t make me obsessive. Enthusiastic, maybe. Yes, enthusiastic. I’ll go with that, and I don’t care what my therapist says.
On a silly little agreeable nod of my head, I resume my concentration of the screen, brushing at my forehead when a stray hair tickles my skin. I sigh, rapt by the sheer perfection that is my wife, the side of my index finger rubbing back and forth across my top lip as I think of all the worshipping time I’ve reserved for tonight. And tomorrow night. And the next night. I smile to myself, wondering what planet I must have been on all those years ago. I knew one night would never be enough. And I know for sure that she knew it, too.
I’m waiting for it.
It’s coming.
Any . . . moment . . . now.
‘Here we go.’ I grin to myself, looking on as she gazes up at the camera and drops her weight casually onto her hip. She’s had enough. But I haven’t. So I stay exactly where I am, denying her. ‘In a minute, sweet girl,’ I muse. ‘Give me what I want.’
My cock starts to twitch in my trousers when I see her roll her eyes, and I shift in my chair to alleviate the pressure of it pushing against my fly. She begins to turn away from the camera. I release a puff of built-up air and try to regulate my breathing. It doesn’t work. ‘Oooh Jesus help me.’
She slowly bends, pushing her pert bottom out, and the material of her Ralph Lauren trousers pulls taunt over her cheeks. Then all sorts of frantic activity happens in my trousers when she looks over her shoulder on a diminutive smile. ‘Bloody hell!’ I’m out of my chair and sprinting to the door in a flash, but I skid to a stop before I make it when something very serious escapes my notice in my urgency. I start pulling at my suit, desperately resisting the powerful urge to look at it. I smooth my collar, my tie, my sleeves – all in a vain attempt to avoid it. ‘Bollocks!’ I drop my head back and let it slowly fall to the side, my eyes landing on the wayward remote control before travelling across to my chair, which is positioned randomly, the seat still swivelling a little from the brute force of me flying up.
Leave them, leave them, leave them.
I can’t. My office is the only sacred place I have left.
I hurry over and swipe the control up, putting it its rightful place in the top drawer. ‘Perfect,’ I declare to myself, ready to fix my chair.
Knock, knock, knock.
My head whips up and for some unknown reason, I come over all guilty.
Then I hear her silky voice through the door. ‘I know what you’re doing!’ she sings, laughter only a fraction away from her tone. ‘Don’t forget your chair, baby.’
My eyes clench shut, like I can hide from my crimes. ‘There’s no need for insolence,’ I mutter, loving her and hating her all at once for knowing me so well.
‘With you, Miller Hart, there is. Open the door or I’ll let myself in.’
‘No!’ I yell, pushing my chair aggressively under my desk. ‘You know I like opening the door for you.’
‘Then hurry up. I have studying to do and a job to get to.’
I wander over to the door, pulling my suit into place and raking an annoyed hand through my hair, but when I take the handle, I don’t turn it. Something has just come to me. ‘Tell me you won’t snitch on me,’ I say, physically stopping myself from opening the door before she agrees. She’s like a magnet and with only a piece of wood between our close bodies, I can feel her luring me closer.
‘To your therapist?’ she asks, giggling, making my cock resume twitching in my trousers.
‘Yes. Promise you won’t make a big deal of it.’
‘I promise,’ she agrees easily. ‘Now let me taste you.’
I swing the door open and brace myself for her attack, laughing when her body crashes to mine before I’ve had the opportunity to absorb her in the flesh. My thing is brief before she’s kissing her way across my stubbled face and plunges her tongue into my mouth. ‘It might slip out accidently,’ she mumbles past my lips, nibbling and biting.
I cotton on to her way of thinking fast. I smile. ‘What will it cost me for your silence?’