style="font-size:15px;"> Oh. My. God.
I can feel the pressure of that contact all the way to the ends of my hair. I lift out of the seat slightly, my shoulders digging back, my hips surging against his hand. I grab the arm of the sofa, the feel of the velvet the only thing that helps me fight off the whopper of an orgasm I’m on the brink of. I cannot come all over his hand. He’s my accountant, for goodness’ sake. He has a good job, a proper job, the sort of job I would have been doing if I was someone else, someone not completely blind to letters and numbers.
‘Don’t you like it?’ he asks me, and his voice is strained. ‘Am I not doing it right?’
There’s no way I can answer that without incriminating myself, so I clamp my lips tight together and say nothing, as he continues to squeeze and the picture flicks on and the throb between my thighs becomes a roar. I swear he must be able to feel my clit pressing into his palm. It’s so hard it’s like a little girly erection, right there between my legs. I want to fuck him with it, right in his mouth, like he did with Amber.
He’s turned around in his seat now, and he’s watching me so intently that I can feel his gaze on my skin like an extra pair of hands. He stops squeezing, and I nearly die. The picture flicks on again, showing my favourite image, the one where he’s spreading her arse cheeks wide and is buried all the way inside her. I turn my face away, biting down into my lip, wanting to scream with frustration, wanting to look, too afraid to do anything but fight this.
‘Don’t you want to look?’ Tom sounds confused. I know how he feels.
‘I…er…’
‘It’sOK,’ he tells me. ‘I don’t mind. Do you want me to touch you some more?’
I’m nodding before I even know I’m doing it. Nodding so much my teeth clack together and it’s a miracle my head doesn’t fall off.
He lifts his hand, angles it in, slides the tips of his fingers under the elastic of my knickers, and then stops. ‘On one condition.’
‘What?’ I huff out. I’m hardly in a condition to speak, and now he wants to negotiate?
‘You have to look at the pictures while I’m touching you.’
I shouldn’t do this. I should pull his hand out of my underwear, and close the laptop and send him away. I’ll find myself someone else to do my taxes and we’ll never speak of this again, probably because I’ve moved to a remote island and am reduced to foraging and taking photos of sheep for Sheep Lovers Weekly.
But my hands won’t seem to work, and the picture keeps changing, and his fingers dip down into the slick, slippery wetness that’s been building all day, and then he drags that hot moisture up to my clit and draws little circles around it with his index finger.
His hand feels strange, so different to mine, sort of hard and stiff as he rubs and rubs and the picture keeps changing. The two of them have stopped fucking now, and instead she’s on her knees, with one hand on his thigh and the other on his cock, which is heavy and veined and swollen. Even in black and white it’s obvious how much the guy needs to come.
The more I try to fight how much this turns me on, the closer my climax gets. It’s rumbling towards me now, like a freight train at speed, loud and unstoppable. I can feel it in my bum, in my vagina, in my breasts, in Tom’s hand and in my clit. I grab the edge of the sofa, the velvet rough against my palms as my hips lift. Tom keeps drawing the same slow, wet circle over me. He doesn’t change the pace, or the pressure. He won’t let me miss, even though I’m trying to.
And then it hits me. Or more accurately, he shoves me into it, lungs burning, mouth dry, muscles cramping. It is blissful, delicious agony, the storm taking over as I come and then I come some more, all over his hand and the gusset of my nude no-VPL knickers.
The last picture flashes onto the screen. One beautiful, perfect popshot. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve taken this picture, but I’ve never let myself fully surrender to the tug of arousal it creates in me before.
And I don’t know what to do now.
Tom eases his hand out of my underwear and I tug down my skirt, then grab the laptop and close it with more force than necessary. I can’t even bring myself to look at him. What do you say in this situation? Thanks, I needed that hardly seems appropriate, even if it is true.
‘Well,’ he says. ‘That was interesting. Did you know that you…’
‘Look,’ I cut him off before he can finish whatever it is that he’s about to say. I’m not sure I want to know. I’ve already learned more about myself than I can handle. ‘About this.’ I flap my hand in the direction of the laptop. ‘You can’t tell anyone.’
‘So you keep telling me.’
‘Not your mates down the pub, not the people you work with, not anyone.’
‘I’m a junior accountant,’ he says. ‘I work in a little office on my own twelve hours a day. Who am I going to tell?’
‘I…’ An image of Tom Hunt sat behind his desk flicks into my mind. His office is so plain, so bare, and so very grey, designed to be completely inoffensive. I can’t imagine being trapped in there all day, every day. ‘Please don’t tell,’ I say again.
‘I won’t tell anyone you take these pictures,’ he says, ‘if you don’t tell anyone you took pictures of me.’
We stare at each other, and there’s a moment of understanding. Of realisation. He knows my dirty secret, but I know his, too. If either of us tells, destruction is mutually assured.
‘You’re right,’ I say, picking at imaginary lint on my skirt. ‘Of course you’re not going to tell anyone.’
And right there and then, I realise what this means. I sneak a look at the front of his trousers. He’s hard. He’s so hard that the seams of his trousers seem to be struggling to hold it in. I’ve learned three things about Tom Hunt so far today. First, there was that tattoo of a bird on his stomach, which seemed so completely out of kilter with the rest of him when I first saw it. That was before I discovered that he can look at pornographic photographs without so much as batting an eye. And then there’s the fact that he’s got an absolutely massive cock.
‘Tom,’ I say, ‘can I ask you something?’
‘If you want.’
Curiosity gets the better of me. ‘Why did you get that tattoo?’
‘Which one?’
‘The bird.’ Which one? Wait a minute. Does this mean there are more?
‘Sometimes I just…’ He pauses, takes a breath then lets it out slowly. ‘Sometimes I just need to do something outrageous. I don’t know why.’
I do. I think about his sterile, joyless office. About my plain, joyless clothes. ‘To stop yourself from going completely mad.’
He glances across at me. ‘Yes. Can I ask you
