work; he sends the wrong reports to his clients; he is afraid to stand up because he is hard, again. To his growing consternation, Howard realises there is only one way to deal with this sort of problem.
Carrying a file in front of him for cover, he heads down the long hallway to the supply room at the end of his floor. Checking carefully to make sure no one sees him, he unlocks the door with his master key and flicks on the light. An anaemic glow illuminates the steel shelves lining the walls. There is a single chair in the room, used by the clerks when they do stocktaking, but other than that the room is bare. It’s perfect for Howard’s purposes. He shuts and locks the door behind him, then takes the photos of Amy out of his pocket and lines them up, reverentially, on one of the shelves closest to the light. His belt makes a clanking sound when his trousers hit the floor.
Howard likes to draw out his pleasure, so he strokes himself through his white Y-fronts to start off with, tracing the outline of his cock under the fabric. The cotton feels good against his skin, and he uses the material to increase the friction on his shaft. Only when he feels ready to burst does he free his cock. A clear drop of pre-come rests on the tip: Howard rubs the pad of his index finger over it. He licks his palm to make it wet, wraps it around his shaft and jerks off gently, staring all the while at Amy’s photographs. Would she like watching this? he wonders. Would she like the way he’s now gripping his shaft with both hands? The way he’s leaning back and pumping his hips up and down, thrusting his cock up into the ever-tightening grip of his own two fists?
His gaze flits between the three photos. He can’t say which one he prefers, but the one where Amy’s finger rests against her red red lips captivates him right now. He snatches it off the shelf, holding it up close to his face.
‘Amy,’ he moans, imagining that sweet mouth on him, her long strawberry blonde hair brushing over his thighs, ‘oh, Amy, yeah, suck me.’
Howard is about to come – his balls are drawn up tight to his body, his thighs clenching rhythmically. He takes his hand off his cock for a moment to pull up his singlet. He hadn’t thought to bring tissues with him and he’s too focused on the impending explosion of his orgasm to remember that the reason it’s called a supply room is because it stores supplies. Like tissues.
It is at this moment that a key sounds in the lock and the door swings open to reveal the object of his fantasies, in the flesh. But Howard is too far gone to stop.
‘I’m sorry,’ he gasps, as he ejaculates over his rippling stomach, ‘so, so sorry.’
Amy is dumbstruck. There is a lot for her to take in. First, that Howard has those pictures of her, which she never thought to show to anyone. Second, that everything she thought she knew about him was wrong. And third, that even if she can’t see all of him because of the shadow she’s casting, Howard is hot. Amy doesn’t know how she never saw that before, never saw beyond the spreadsheets and the sandals.
Cheeks burning with shame, Howard pulls up his trousers and stumbles past her without a word. Amy knows she should feel outraged, but all she feels is aroused. Oh, and flattered. She has never considered herself beautiful, with her too-big nose and her slightly lopsided smile. When she picks up her photos and looks at them again, really looks at them, she sees how wrong she is. She may not be perfect, but that doesn’t mean she’s not beautiful. For the rest of the day Amy walks around as if she’s high.
Howard is not in the next day, though, or the day after that, or for the rest of the week. Amy begins to worry that he’s not coming back. She asks around, but no one has heard from him. So she bribes the temp in Human Resources – more boobs than brains – and gets Howard’s private email address. She has to let him know that everything is OK, that even if she is puzzled about how he got the photos, she isn’t angry with him. And she knows just how to prove it.
When Amy gets home that night, she takes three more self-portraits, each in a different style – one stereotypically ‘sexy’, one classy and the other explicit – because she doesn’t know what Howard would like best. That remote shutter gadget she thought she’d never use is certainly coming in handy. After a quick shot of whisky for courage, she sends Howard an email, attaching the three original photos that he has already seen, and the new ones she’s just taken.
To: Howard Venn
From: Amy Jenssen
Subject: Photos
Attachments: Amy.zip
Here’s the complete set. If you like what you see, meet me at Pirelli’s for dinner tomorrow night at 8pm.
We missed you this week.
Amy
Howard has spent the last four days in his apartment, too ashamed to go to work, trawling the internet for advice on appropriate wording for an apology card. He sees Amy’s email immediately, and his stomach lurches. He’s sure the attachment will be a copy of the complaint Amy plans on lodging with management. Not that he blames her. He is thoroughly disgusted with himself.
He has to read the message three times before its meaning sinks in. She won’t be making a complaint. She missed him. She actually wants to see him again. With a shaky hand, Howard downloads the photos. He is of course intimately acquainted with the first three, but not with the others. Exhibit 4: Amy, straddling a chair, biting her lip seductively, dressed like a schoolgirl in a plaid skirt and white cotton shirt tied up to expose her midriff. Exhibit 5: Amy, drink in hand, blowing a kiss to the camera, in a semi-transparent chiffon peignoir that hints at the bounty beneath.
And finally there is Exhibit 6: Amy, wearing only her birthday suit, bent forward over the desk, looking back over her shoulder into the camera and winking. Howard makes a strangled sound. He can see right between her plump thighs to the blonde-furred crease in between. The lips of her sex look swollen, and he knows she was aroused when she took the photo. It is only with supreme effort, and some differential calculus, that Howard manages to get his libido under control. He’s saving himself for Amy.
When he arrives at the restaurant, Amy hardly recognises him. His usually tousled hair is swept back; he wears a suit and expensive Italian shoes. He searches the room for her anxiously, and when their eyes meet a broad smile transforms his usually serious face. She stands to greet him and his eyes widen at the way her red dress clings to the flare of her hips.
‘Hi, Howard, I’m really glad you came.’ Amy winces at her double entendre. ‘Um, I mean, I’m so happy you’re here. You look great.’
‘Thanks, my brother gave me some advice on what to wear.’ Howard blushes. ‘I don’t go out much.’
Once the waiter is out of earshot, he starts to apologise. ‘Amy, I’m so sorry about everything, I –’
‘It’s OK, Howard.’
‘No, you have to let me explain,’ he insists, and the next words come out in one long rush of a sentence. ‘I saw you at the print shop that night, but I was too shy to say hello, and then the assistant interrupted you and you got flustered and you forgot to stop the machine and it just kept on printing. It had already printed those photos before I stopped it, and I couldn’t just leave them there. And then, last Monday when you …’ Howard finally pauses, not for breath, but because what can he possibly say that would make things all right?
‘It’s fine, honestly –’
‘It’s so not, what I did was wrong, it was –’
‘Howard,’
