As I moved the vibrator’s settings between oh-yeah and OHMYGOD, I pictured a man in an expensive suit doing all sorts of things to me. Things I’d never done before: spanking, tricky positions, and even sex in public. I’d settled on a nice image of us in an underground parking lot, me gently biting the shoulder of a man whose face I’d not yet seen. The vibrator was on its lowest setting when I came, hard and fast, crying out in surprise.
I clapped my hand over my mouth. The window to my bedroom was open, and people were walking by outside, talking. Someone asked their companion, “What was that? Did you hear people having sex? I think it came from up there.”
I pulled one of my pillows over my face and giggled like mad.
I suddenly stopped laughing. Had I made all those loud noises earlier today, in the closet? He must have heard me. Damnit.
All the more reason to be extra careful the next day, careful not to be seen, and even more careful not to be heard. And yet, I hoped he’d noticed the scent in his walk-in closet. I didn’t know if Grace would be taking credit for the work or if he’d know someone else had been touching his things, folding his boxers and smelling his suits. I hoped he’d pulled the blue shirt from the laundry and smell me on it, then go mad with desire for me.
With that thought, I grabbed my vibrator from the bed next to me and dialed it up to OHMYGOD.
Part 2: The Office Chair
Mr. Thorne had a handsome chair. As I gazed at the swivel chair with the ergonomic, space-age-fabric back—the type of specialized Euro office equipment that probably costs two grand—I imagined the handsome buns that sat there. Did he use the chair first thing in the morning to check on his stocks? Perhaps while wearing only his boxers?
I ran my fingers along the armrests and fantasized about doing a sexy little striptease for Mr. Thorne, culminating in a lap dance. I’d never given a lap dance before—I’m an organizer, not a stripper—but something told me I’d enjoy the act. Perhaps it was my damp panties. Blue ones that day, with the matching bra. I’m not normally such a stickler for matching things up, I just grab whatever’s freshly laundered, but the Thorne mansion was bringing out my best and worst behavior—best because of the matching, and worst because I kept rubbing my mound on the edge of Mr. Thorne’s desk. Now I was imagining him spanking my butt, and punishing me for snooping around in his papers when I was supposed to be tidying.
All the good stuff was locked away in a filing cabinet, anyway. Phooey.
Grace had made sure of that before she left me alone to organize Mr. Thorne’s office. I had little to do, mainly making tidy stacks and folders for piles of magazine clippings and newspaper articles. From what I could tell so far, Mr. Thorne was a visual man. That meant he liked to look at br**sts in a nice bra. He also preferred to have his magazine clippings somewhere he could see them at a glance, not tucked away in a drawer. For a man like that, stacking file organizers and those pockets you attach to the wall work best, preferably clear lucite ones.
Lucky for Mr. Thorne, I knew just where to buy such things, and I got a discount. I’d mark up the materials and get a little profit on them as well. I’d be making some good money from this job, and even more if I accomplished the seemingly-simple task of keeping from being seen.
I leaned across the thick, oak desk that was positioned to look at the garden view out the picture window. I used my little measuring tape to measure the width of the desk, and then I thought about using it to measure the width of other things—male things. This gave me a giggle, and I leaned harder onto the desk. I relaxed my neck and rested my face on the cool surface, pressing my right cheek against the wood while imagining a firm hand spanking my bottom for being so naughty.
As I was sprawled out this way, I heard a man’s voice, outside the door. The door wasn’t locked, because Grace had said Mr. Thorne was out golfing and not due home for hours.
Grace was talking to him, very loud, telling him not to go into his office because … she thought she saw a mouse in there. A mouse! I glanced around.
“Use the laptop in the kitchen,” she pleaded.
“Don’t be ridiculous. A mouse? How would it have gotten in here?”
“Through the door?” she said. “I think I saw one come in when the groceries were being delivered. A little white one.”
Oh, Grace, I thought, you’re not the world’s greatest liar, are you?
Mr. Thorne laughed at the idea of being afraid of a mouse. The door opened. He came into the room.
He paused, and I was sure he saw me, crouched in the shadow underneath the thick wood desk, like a mouse in a cave.
“I don’t see a mouse,” he called back to Grace.
She sounded flustered as she prattled on about mice and their habits.
He dismissed her, closed the door, and crossed the room. I caught a glimpse of golf shoes, and a whiff of his cologne.
“No mouse,” he said to himself. “But I do smell pu**y.” I couldn’t see his face, but I imagined him shaking his head as he said, “Must be my imagination.”
I bit my lip and breathed in deeply, trying to filter the smell of myself through my nostrils, like some human air freshener, which was ridiculous, but when you’re hiding under a billionaire’s desk and a big roll of cash is on the line, you do what you have to do.
“Mousey, mousey, mousey,” he said, and he pulled the chair away from in front of me. “Pussy, pu**y, pu**ycat?”
My breath caught in my throat.
He sat down on the chair, his legs wide, and his crotch facing me.
I gulped, a little too loud, I feared.
He had quite the package, from the look of it. I licked my lips as the blood rushed to my own crotch area.
He was so close to me, and yet, I couldn’t do anything. I wondered what he would do if I reached out and gently unfastened that expensive-looking belt buckle.
As if my own feverish imagination was making my thoughts reality, his own hand unfastened his belt. He had thick fingers, young-looking, with shiny nails, as though they’d been buffed. Of course he’d have a manicure, I thought. A guy that rich probably had four girls work on him at once to save time, one for each hand and foot. Maybe he had a fifth girl too, for other buffing needs.
I licked my lips again and swallowed hard, because my mouth was watering.
The bulge in his pants was moving, growing larger, taller.
He groaned and adjusted himself, the tip of it emerging above the edge of his waistband.
Come on, baby, just undo that zipper, I coaxed him with my mind.