by Susanne Mathies
(07/15/09)
The light switches from midnight blue to aquarium green. Feet shuffle under the tables around me. I look up at the projection screen.
Slide eighty-two: We're nowhere near the break yet. If they all knew how many more old Perkins is going to give them, they'd mutiny. But they don't, as Perkins didn't send the presentation out beforehand, clever sod. And the slide footer doesn't give it away either. It just says "Slide 82," not "Slide 82 of 167." I asked about it at the course they made me take. "It's not a feature. This is a standard program," the tutor said. Maybe I should become a tutor, too.
Every once in a while, people go out to fetch themselves a cup of coffee. Edward King is checking his e-mails, as always. And Ronnie Walker keeps trying to flirt with Margaret Myers, fancying himself as the playboy of the Western world. I'd better carry on typing before I nod off. Today, I've been making good progress.
With the tip of her scarlet fingernail, Margaret traced the burgeoning bulge in Jimmy's shorts.
"Quite a big boy, aren't you?"
"But Mrs. Myers. You're Bob's mother." Jimmy's face was becoming pink underneath his freckles.
"You don't have to tell me that. I was there, you know, been through the whole thing, all of sixteen years."
"And Bob's my best friend!"
"We could become best friends too, Jimmy." Her finger was rubbing the upper end of the bulge now, while her other hand started travelling up his thigh. The elastic of Jimmy's waistband was starting to lift. Mrs. Myers chuckled and licked her lips with the tip of her tongue.
I might even get this published one day. The names would have to be changed, of course. A shame really, having the names in is half the fun. But then, I wouldn't want to go to jail for libel.
My silver bangles jangle as I reach for the mouse, causing Tom Winter to raise his eyebrow at me. He's the archetypal IBM consultant, a soft boyish face on top of a smartly cut suit. I know that everyone calls me the company gypsy, but nobody else goes to so much trouble to let me know what they think of my taste in outfits.
Tom Winter hesitated, waiting for Conchita to make the first move.
"So I take him out and put it on him, yes?"
She tore the condom wrapper open with her sharp white teeth. He flinched. Didn't the silly girl know that you could easily pierce the latex that way?
She smiled. "Now I put my hand into your pants. You like that, yes?"
With a deft movement, she opened the button and pulled down the zipper. Her business-like grip evoked memories of early childhood, when his mother had helped him go to the loo. "Latin child of nature, hot for you and easy-going" had been the wrong choice to make, it seemed. But he might as well go through with it now.
Conchita's smile became broader. "But you're a shy boy. You like to play a little? You like to tear my blouse?"
Why not, he thought, if she asks me to. He put his hands to the collar of her blouse and started to pull it apart. The buttons opened easily, and he was beginning to feel cheated. But the sight of her breasts put paid to all unpleasant thoughts. They were set high on her slender body, small but perfectly rounded, with rosy nipples pointing upwards. He put thumb and forefinger around the nipple tips, gently stroking them. They were sticky to his touch, and he leant closer to investigate. Yes, she had glazed them with luscious pink sugar coating. Hungrily, he circled her breast with his tongue.
Her fingers unrolled a condom to the length of his stiffening member. While he explored the dusky halo of her nipple with his tongue, sucking the sweet tangy topping, she clasped his rock hard penis in her hot narrow cleft.
"Angelica, dear."
Oh fuck. I didn't hear him come up behind me. Quickly, I toggle to the other document before turning around.
"Could you please print the budget report for me?" Edward's hand is on my shoulder, his well-preserved face smiling down at me. Mild blue eyes, light tan, supple lips. Some of the secretaries have a crush on him. Well, at least it shows better judgment than falling for the beefy charms of Ronnie Walker.
"Coming up." I hit the "Print" button and smile back at him. "I'll get them in a minute."
"Good girl." He walks back to his chair.
Oh no. My screen says "Document sent to printer." But the document in question is the one I called "The Secret Files of A."
Better get to the printer room quickly. But I have to print out the budget report first, or people will be wondering what I'm up to.
As I pass Edward on my way to the door, he holds out his hand. "Angelica, could you be an angel and fetch the Profile folder from my office? It's classified, so you're going to need my desk key."
He rummages around in his trouser pockets. Normally, I don't mind watching him, as he's slim and shapely for his age. I wish he'd hurry up now, though. Finally, he fishes it out and puts it into my hand, still warm.
"Ah, I forgot. I already put the folder on my desktop." He takes the key from me, touching my palm, and smiles.
I hurry out and rush down the aisle. Just as I'm about to turn the corner, my way is blocked by the lunch lady who is trying to push an overloaded trolley into the lift. I have to help her, of course. Finally, I reach the copying room. The big printer is screeching as it spews out page after page onto a growing pile in the tray. I pick up the sheaf of paper and start leafing through. The budget report is right on top, but my secret file is missing. It's not on the discard stack either.
Somebody must have taken it. The fug of ozone, toner, and plastic is becoming thicker. A buzzing bluebottle is butting its head against the dusty windowpane. Maybe someone picked the file up by mistake, and binned it when they realized what it was? Whatever happens, I'll just have to wing it.
In Edward's office, I glance at the familiar photograph on his desk before looking for the folder. He and his wife are laughing up at me, seated on the deck of a yacht in the sunshine. He told us once that his wife hates sailing because she gets seasick. So why is she so cheerful? Maybe my secret scenario fits, after all?
Gina's nimble fingers slipped into Edward's trouser pocket. While her fingertips were tracing the seams of the lining, her big brown eyes held his gaze in innocent expectation. It was hard to believe that this girl was married to his next-door neighbor, a conventional accountant. These secret lunch breaks with her were becoming alarmingly addictive.
"I've found something," she said softly. Her touch moved down the whole length of his cock, lingering a little at the base. Then she brought her hand up again, clutching a small sparkling object.
"A nipple ring!" She bent forward and caressed his ear with the tip of her tongue. "How sweet of you. Would you like to put it in?"
He pulled at the bow at the top of her tight white linen blouse. As it came undone, her big suntanned breasts swung out, their hardened tips pointing in opposite directions. One of them was pierced by an antique shell-shaped ring.
He hesitated, then gave it a gentle flick. "This one is new."
"My sister gave it to me."
That was a lie. He had seen his wife buying it, and his wife had no siblings. But his wife had been rather cool towards him lately.
"Define "sister"," he said, playfully tugging at the ring while weighing the breast in his hand.
Mustn't let myself get distracted, though. Just pick up the folder and leave.
"Can't you look where you're going?"
I don't appreciate it when someone who cannons into me berates me as well. Especially not if that someone is a conceited ass like Ronnie Walker.
I hope they are not going to make him partner. He needs taking down a peg or two.
"And where are you off to in such a hurry, Ronnie? Running away from your guilty secrets?" Well, in my book he should be:
The relaxed well-being was ebbing away from Ronnie Walker's body. Unless she could be persuaded to tackle him again, he'd have to leave soon.
She always liked to get some sleep before Harry came back from work.
"Bad, bad girl," he said hopefully.
"How do you know?" Miranda mumbled into his chest hair.
"It suits you."
Miranda giggled. "Do you know I have some really dirty little secrets?"
There was a gratifying little twitch in his previously tired member.
"Tell me."
"Mhm, too tired."
"If you were really bad, you'll get a reward. I promise." He tickled her pussy affectionately.
"Right. You know how stingy Harry is. For my birthday, he bought me a cheap silver bead on a leather string. A quid on the market."
Ronnie groaned. One of these days, he'd have to give Miranda a more expensive present than the usual box of chocolates.
"We were at a restaurant, and I excused myself for a minute. When I came back, the bead was no longer around my neck."
"Miranda, you didn't." The tug in his penis was getting stronger now.
"I told Harry I had mislaid it. And all the time, while we were eating and talking, I was moving it inside me, getting juicier all the time."
"And then?"
"Sorry -- I want my reward now."
Harry picked up a truffle from the bedside table.
"Have a chocolate?" He let the truffle roll over her thigh.
"Ronnie, no! We'll mess up the bed, and how shall I explain. Oh. That's smooth and creamy."
Ronnie grabs my upper arm. "What the heck do you mean by that?"
"Just wondering why you're running so fast."
"I'm not running. Why should I?"
"Indeed."
"In fact, you're the one who's been walking faster than usual. Have you got something to hide, Angelica?" I can't believe he dares to wink at me like this.
"No, I'm just in a hurry to give Edward the Profile file he's been asking for," I say coldly. Ronnie grunts and pushes past me.
Back in the conference room, I hand the budget report to Edward. In my search for the printout, I must have lingered longer than I realized. The light has turned to bright yellow in the meantime, and the presentation has already reached the "Next Steps" slide. As I sit down, I notice a yellow folder lying next to my notebook. Somebody must have put it there while I was out. I open it. It contains "The Secret Files of A.", neatly stapled and perforated, ready for filing.
I look around the table to see whether anybody is watching me, but they are all intent on following the presentation. Can I just take the folder with me and pretend that nothing has happened? As I am about to close it, I discover a single printout at the bottom.
Angelica fits the key into the lock of her front door. A day well spent, a job well done. She feels a warm glow inside. If only she could make it home a little earlier at night, everything would be perfect. It's always dark by the time she reaches the suburbs. The street lamp in front of her house is broken, and on a moonlit night like this, the high shrubs cast deep shadows on the pavement.
The branches of the apple trees in the garden are creaking in the wind. If someone were to come up to her out of the dark now, she wouldn't even notice.
She turns the key in the lock, twice. Inside the hall, the nightlight is burning, just as it should be. As she is about to step into the house, she notices a star-shaped dark stain on the threshold. She bends down, tentatively holding out her hand towards it. It feels cool and spiky, and she picks it up. Silly! It's just a vine leaf that dropped from the wall.
She straightens, laughing. But there is something that prevents her from leaning back. A bulky figure in a leather coat is crushing her from behind, clamping an arm across her chest, clutching and kneading her breast. She feels a scream rising in her throat, but at that moment the intruder's other hand stuffs a gag into her mouth.
There is a hot breath on her neck, and a whisper. "Time for punishment, little Angelica."
She grunts, trying to speak.
"We'll take our time on this, don't you worry. So many things you did today, so many bad things to make up for."
The stranger pushes closer from behind, one hand sliding up underneath Angelica's skirt. It's impossible to tell whether it's male or female. The hand is covered with a ribbed rubbery glove that feels sticky and cool on her trembling thighs.
I put the paper down and look around the conference table. Everybody appears to be entranced by the presentation, including Ronnie, Edward, Margaret and Tom -- ordinary colleagues in an ordinary company. Still I might decide not to go home tonight. Someone broke the street lamp yesterday.
Finally, the conference is over. People are blocking the door in their haste to get out. Edward stays behind and whispers in my ear.
"Is it easy to scare you? You seem such a cool customer."
I lean back against him. His presence does not feel scary at all. And I'm not feeling cool either, not with the hot rod that is pressing against me from behind.
suspect thoughts: a journal of subversive writing
Slow Trains Literary Journal - Editor, Susannah Indigo
