Seduce Me (12 page)

Office Crush
by Sadie Wolf

I once spent a year in Australia, working nine to five in an office ten minutes' walk from the famous harbour. At lunchtime I often sat and ate my sandwiches on a bench with views of the bridge and the opera house. Tourists would stop and ask me to take their photographs, and their happiness was infectious. It was like stepping right into a picture postcard, but amazing as it was, it wasn't the scenery that made the strongest impression on me.

The office I worked in was essentially open-plan, with screens dividing it up into smaller areas where teams of four or so people worked. A handful of more senior staff had offices with proper walls and doors off the main area, but with plenty of glass so that they weren't particularly private. One of these offices was right by my area, and I had to pass its door, which was invariably open, every time I left or returned to my desk. I felt an initial awkwardness about its inhabitants – Monique, a senior caseworker, and Mathew, the manager of another team. I wondered if I should smile or say hello every time I passed, which would have been ridiculous, or not to bother, which might look standoffish? I needn't have worried. Monique was almost always ensconced behind her desk in the far corner, busy typing or on the phone; and Mathew … well, he simply failed to acknowledge my existence.

He didn't immediately strike me as especially good looking. He was mid- to late-thirties with close-cropped hair, and a serious, unfriendly expression permanently on his face. He was one of only two other English people in the office, but if I had expected this to create a bond between us, I would have been wrong. He was from Manchester, and spoke in a flat Mancunian drawl that only served to accentuate his grumpy persona. He'd emigrated fifteen years ago and had never been back. You had to be tough to do that, or it made you tough. I was homesick enough just being away for a year.

He never actually spoke to me, although I often heard him having quite animated conversations with other people, often people I was on quite friendly terms with. Sometimes I would finish a conversation with someone and return to my desk, and a few minutes later hear Mathew talking to that same person in his office. I tried to imagine them acting as some kind of bridge between Mathew and me, making some kind of connection between us. I suppose the fact that he ignored me only made me more interested. I sneaked glances at him when he was sitting at his desk, and was acutely aware of when he was passing my work area. I noticed his face and arms were tanned, and that his body was lean and well-muscled; apparently he did a lot of running.

I started making more effort with my appearance in the mornings. People commented on my hair, my clothes. I found myself increasingly conscious of my body, my movements. When I walked past his office, I was acutely aware of my walk, my steps, like walking in and out of time to a beat I wasn't familiar with.

I considered myself fortunate to have a desk by a window, and I often found myself gazing out of it, daydreaming. There was a busy junction right outside, and I often winced while observing the frequent near misses involving motorists and pedestrians.

I used to daydream about getting hit by a car just as Mathew was coming back from the coffee shop, and him picking me up and taking me to the hospital, and me lying in his arms looking pale and vulnerable, and a special bond being created between us. Him visiting me at the hospital and us eating grapes and talking, and him realising what an interesting person I am, and me realising he only seems cold because he hasn't met the right woman yet … Or even if I just got hit by a car and turned up to work with a full leg plaster and crutches. He would definitely look at me then, maybe even comment, and would surely help me up if I fell down in front of him. But would he all of a sudden notice my eyes, my tits? I began to worry about being invisible.

In August it was my birthday, and I brought in cakes for the office. After lunch I found myself alone with him in the kitchen. I took a deep breath.

‘There's some cake over there if you want some.'

‘What's the occasion?' He picked up his cup of coffee.

‘It's my birthday.'

‘Twenty-one again?' He opened the door. I tried desperately to think of something to say, but by the time I had opened my mouth, he'd shut the door behind him. I stood there alone, hugging my stomach, which was turning over and over, feeling foolish and excited all at the same time.

I had two friends in the office, who I sometimes went out for coffee with and who between them helped me to survive the office. Lucy was sharp, blonde and pretty. She entertained us with boyfriend stories. Sam was English and had a little girl, and was strong and warm-hearted. When we gossiped about people in the office, Mathew's name would come up periodically. We all agreed that there was something seriously wrong with him, the way he was so anti-social, never talked to us and always looked so moody
. And
he was lazy, always reading the paper at his desk when he should have been working. Although inevitably one of us would start giggling, and we would grudgingly admit that yes, he was horrible, but he was also – horror of horrors – actually quite fit. Although not that any of us would actually … of course not, no way! According to Lucy he was dating some woman who had wooed him by cooking him fancy Russian dinners. We all agreed that she sounded pretentious and that, in any case, she must be mad, poor woman, to go out with him.

The office was divided up into teams, with each team managing its own list of clients. In addition to this everyone in the office took turns to hold the duty phone, dealing with miscellaneous queries that the reception staff couldn't answer, or handling urgent problems when the caseworker responsible was unavailable.

Now, I was competent at my job. I was conscientious and looked after my clients well. I didn't like holding the duty phone though, because you never knew what was coming, and you could be faced with having to sort out all sorts of problems without knowing anything about the background. One particular afternoon when I had the phone, everything had been pretty quiet, only ringing with everyday queries I could easily deal with. Then a call came through from one of Mathew's clients. Mathew was out of the office and couldn't be contacted. His client was calling from a hotel in Bangkok, in a furious panic because a vital piece of paperwork was missing. I did my best to reassure him, took down the phone and fax numbers of the hotel and got to work in the file room. I found his file easily enough, but it was in such a mess that it took me some time to find what I was looking for.

I prayed that the fax machine wouldn't choose this moment to play up – luckily it didn't – then rang him back to tell him what I had done.

He sounded too relieved to be annoyed any more, and I felt as if I had just headed off a potential disaster. Mathew was due back in the office at four, and I was so irrationally excited about his return that I forgot to be nervous about holding the phone.

He arrived back in the office and began talking to Monique. I waited a couple of minutes, then I picked up his client's file and the phone, and knocked tentatively on the open door.

‘Hi Julie.' Monique was friendly enough, as always.

‘What can we do for you?' Mathew drawled, looking at me for what felt like the first time. My mission gave me a purpose, and some confidence. I stepped into the office and sat down on a chair opposite Mathew's desk.
I'm sitting in his office.

‘I had a call on the duty phone from one of your clients – Mr Mason, in Bangkok?'

His face registered this information. He laughed.

‘Oh shit. I bet he was after that spreadsheet?'

‘That's the one. I faxed it to his hotel, it's all OK now.'

He leaned back in his chair. I tried not to stare at his forearms, bare below his rolled up shirtsleeves.

‘Knew I'd forgotten something. Well, thanks for that. You can just put that file back for me.'

‘No problem.'

He turned back to Monique.
Say something.

‘Lucky him, must be exciting, jetting off to Bangkok.'

‘Horrible place. Far too hot, full of traffic fumes.'

He looked at me. My stomach contracted. Was he
smirking
at me?

‘Right, well, I guess I'd better -.' I picked up the phone and waved it vaguely.

‘Has it been busy, Julie?' Monique asked kindly.

‘Er, no, not really …' I trailed off. Mathew appeared absorbed in his paperwork. I stood up.

‘OK … bye.' I don't think he even bothered saying goodbye.

I had been assigned a small research project to do, but between looking after my clients and the distractions of a busy office I was beginning to despair of ever getting it completed. I knew my boss often came in on a Sunday to catch up on paperwork, so I asked him if I could do the same. He said I was welcome to, and that he and his wife were flying to Melbourne for the weekend so I would probably have the office to myself.

When the alarm went off on Sunday morning, I resisted the temptation to switch it off and go back to sleep. The sun was coming in through the curtains, and although the bed was lovely and warm, getting up didn't seem such a bad idea. I stretched and hugged myself awake, then rolled out of bed and wandered naked straight into the shower. The hot water felt good, made me feel awake and energised. I washed and conditioned my hair, shaved my legs, and after I had towelled myself dry I put on body lotion and perfume and painted my nails. It felt good to pull on jeans for going into work. I put on a thin black cashmere jumper without a bra, to enjoy the feeling of it against my skin.

I blow-dried my hair and put on a little make-up, then picked up my bag and headed out the door, humming a little tune to myself. I felt light and free, and proud of myself for getting up early.

The change in routine gave me a lift, and I thought about how silly I was, to feel so excited about going into work on a Sunday.

I opened the main door using my passkey. The boss was right – there didn't seem to be anyone else around. I opened the door to the file room, putting out my hand to feel for the light switch as I stepped inside. Before I found it, I screamed – I had touched someone. The someone grabbed hold of my wrist, really hard, and I looked up and saw Mathew. Fear turned to relief, and back to fear. A jolt of electricity shot through my belly, and our eyes locked.

‘I'm sorry.' He let go of me. He put the light on and I sat down on the table. I could feel myself trembling. This was the closest we had ever been to each other.

‘I'm sorry.' I said, even though I didn't know why I was apologising.

‘Nervous aren't you? I was just switching off the light when I heard a noise. I wasn't expecting anyone else to come in today. Sorry. Did I hurt your wrist?'

I held out my arm. My wrist had a red mark around it. He picked it up, lightly, casually, as if he was picking up a pencil, or a piece of paper, and kissed it on the red mark.

‘Cold are you? Good job it's Sunday, you'd drive your clients wild.' He was staring unashamedly at my chest, an amused expression on his face. My nipples were hard and quite noticeable through the thin cashmere.

Then, casually, as if he was doing nothing at all out of the ordinary, he took hold of the hem of my sweater and pulled it off over my head. He knelt down and kissed my nipples, taking them in his mouth. It felt delicious, but after a few seconds, he stopped.

‘If anyone came here, I'd get all the blame, and you could say it was sexual harassment, even though you've been making eyes at me for months.'

‘No. I wouldn't do that.'

‘Prove it.' He looked down at the floor in front of his feet, and I understood. I knelt down on the floor in front of him. He undid his belt, and the zip of his trousers. The smell of him was like a drug … all soapy sweetness. I reached into his trousers, pulling down his black cotton shorts and exposing his cock, which was thick and hard, and quivering slightly, right in front of my face. I felt a ringing in my ears as I closed my eyes and took him into my mouth. I put my hands on his thighs, feeling a thrill of pride that they were shaking slightly.
So, there is a way to get to him.

I concentrated as hard as I could on the task in hand, licking the length of his cock to make it slippery and easy to take in, and taking it as far back as I could. I let my hands explore his thighs and his balls, which were hard and felt full to bursting. When he came, he held the back of my head with his hands and thrust into me, fucking my mouth.

I spent the next three months being his whore. No one was supposed to know. He had forbidden me from telling anyone at all. Monique once raised an eyebrow at me, giving me a funny look, and I blushed and felt embarrassed, but she never said anything. I never went to his house, nor he to mine. Little pieces of paper would appear in my pigeonhole:
8pm Wednesday
and I'd cancel whatever I was doing and be there. We always did it at work, in the file room, because at least that had a lock. He never took me on a date, or even so much as bought me a drink.

Most of the time he didn't even fuck me, much less caress or cuddle me. Our encounters were clinical, emotionally cold, yet he left me desperate for more, absolutely in thrall to him and his wishes.

I never found out why he stopped. Maybe he was worried about people finding out, or maybe he had decided to settle down properly with the Russian cookery expert, I don't know. I was devastated at the time, of course, but there was nothing I could do. It wasn't as if we even talked about it – talking wasn't something we ever did. But I tried to keep my chin up, and one of the things that helped was remembering our last time. It felt so special that even now I feel sure he must have planned it specially, in order to do me a final kindness.

He'd left me a little note, as usual, except that this time it was handwritten instead of typed, and actually had a little kiss at the bottom. After he had locked the door of the file room behind us, he actually sat down on the floor next to me and talked to me for a little while. Not about anything earth-shattering, just a little small talk about work and the office, but it meant a lot. It made it feel a bit more normal, less degrading, than his usual practice of just undoing his trousers. I knew something was up when he kissed me before doing anything else, then lay me down on the floor and held me, chest against chest, so that I could feel his heart beating.