My phone rang to tell me that my 9:30 appointment had arrived.
It was a second visit, now prompting the raised eyebrows of those few staff who notice absolutely everything in this dreary place, none the less a car in the parking lot with foreign plates, the cologne once more, the tailored jacket, no tie, the starched shirt now unbuttoned more than absolutely necessary. I walked out and shook hands, leading my visitor back down the long corridor past the conference room where we met last time, and into my office. He glanced down the seam of my French stockings, then back up, blushing as he saw me looking back at him. I showed him a seat.
“Coffee?” I moved the piles of papers away from his chair, dropped several of them.
“No, I…” he hesitated. “Yes, sure. Just a little cream, please.”
I walked back out of the office and down the hall once more, sure this time that he was watching my back again, but I resolved not to turn to look this time. I lingered in the kitchen, aware of the small crowd of coworkers trying to gauge my reactions. Cool, cool, hot coffee, cream, I headed back toward my office. He had picked up the papers, stacked them next to my printer.
“What is this?” he had been snooping, looking at the various things on the bulletin board.
“Oh, the poem? It’s Wallace Stevens.. Do you know it”
“I am not so familiar with poetry in English..” he began, reaching across to take the mug. That was when I saw them: cuff links. Perhaps my most cherished fetish. I backed into my chair, suddenly embarrassed by my delight.
I cannot explain what it is that arouses me so much when I see a French cuff, the small pleats creased so neatly, the flash of gold, such adornment a throwback perhaps, or maybe just another glimmer into the imagination, the care taken to dress surely indicative of much more. I crossed my legs, felt the garter snap as it caught on the fabric of the chair and instinctively ran my hand round to the back of my leg to assess the damage. It was still holding. I felt my belly tighten as I moved back in my chair, trying to focus on our conversation.
But I hear little more now of practical importance, at least not work-related. I hear him when he suggests leaving. I hear him gasp as my fingers unfasten those tailored trousers, let loose his cock from the snug briefs, run my fingers down the smooth hardness of him, my tongue quickly taking over, there, there in my office parking lot, yes there. I hear him, hear the low moans, the holding back, hear myself I think, too, know the want, the lust, the sheer need.
I snap back from my reverie, notice that my purse has spilled open beneath the desk, its various secrets revealed, pleasure beads and perfume, tea bags and the earrings I chose not to wear this morning, my little luxuries.
“So, if you don’t mind, can you let me know how your clients enjoy this?” he hands me a small box. I let his hand brush against mine.
“Of course. I really appreciate this,” I tell him. I do appreciate the gesture, embarrassed now by my intense arousal, smoothing my skirt as I stand and try to mask the heat that is building inside of me.
He pauses. I wait for him to stand up to leave, wondering if he wants more, wanting more myself? Perhaps, perhaps not, lost perhaps too much in my own daydreams, the fantasies, the wish for excitement, imagination, my thoughts getting the best of me, yes the best. He is pretty, yes so handsome in his jacket, flashing glance backward, flirtations yes, always welcome, the frivolities distracting me from the day, the days, the tiresome grueling days that run each one into the other here in this grey office and all that remains here, imperfect, tragic at times, miraculous others.