The Red Collection (16 page)

It’s very uncomfortable, pressed face down across the table like this, with my hands fastened so I can’t adjust my position. My warm cheek is squished sideways against the unfriendly grey surface and my breasts ache where they’re flattened by own weight.

I’m vulnerable. Exposed. Hugely excited. Silky fluid slides down the inside of my thigh.

I imagine The Detective’s eagle eyes watching its progress. I wait for a sardonic comment but he remains tantalisingly silent. The only sound is a slight rustle from his clothing.

What the hell is he doing? I twist and strain to see him, unconsciously aware that I must not lift my head. Across the desk, I see him drop his jacket neatly over the back of his chair, and then there are faint noises like fine fabric being folded.

The bastard’s rolling up his sleeves, ready for action!

It’s a shock when I feel his hand slide beneath my T-shirt and touch my bottom.

‘I could have you now, couldn’t I?’ he whispers, leaning right over me, fingertips skittering and flickering over the nervous surface of my buttocks.

I purse my lips, determined to resist him for the sheer devilment of testing our limits. I want him. I think … But it’s different now. Lusting from afar isn’t dangerous … and this is.

His fingers slip into the groove of my bottom, sliding downwards, delicately disturbing my slippery folds. I bite my lip, trying not to whine like a horny bitch.

‘I could have you … but I don’t think I will.’

I wait for my own wail of disappointment but it doesn’t materialise. Touch is enough, touch and something more assertive.

‘I know what you need, Vicky. I know what you want … I know what’s best for a naughty girl like you.’

Slowly, with what feels suspiciously like reverence, he raises my grungy T-shirt, tucks it beneath my cuffed hands and exposes the trembling cheeks of my naked backside. He steps to my right side and places the points of
his
fingers on first one buttock, then the other. The whine gets away from me this time and I lift my hips to meet his touch.

‘Patience, little girl, patience,’ he says steadily, then begins to slowly pat my cheeks, first one, then the other, as before.

It’s so measured, so detailed, so leisurely.

The pats become taps. The taps become more forceful. The forceful taps gain momentum, becoming slaps.

And they hurt!

They hurt like hell! Like fire! Like burning, biting flames!

A little bonfire that seeps and flows into my pussy.

I’m making all sorts of noise now. Grunts, whines, groans and whimpers … the sound of my own voice turns me on even more. There’s something thrilling about being reduced to a giant hormone. A drooling, needing creature of submissive lust …

The Detective laughs with delight.

‘Now you know,’ he announces exultantly. ‘Now you know what you really want and really need.’ His hand stills on my right bottom cheek, squeezing lightly and making it hard for me to breathe. ‘And now we need to resolve the situation.’ His voice is brisk. He’s still pleased with himself. And he’s smiling as he turns me over, sits me on the edge of the desk and induces another groan as my reddened bottom takes my weight.

But what he does next is a total surprise.

With a grace that belies his towering height and his muscular girth, he sinks to his knees, grabs me by the thighs … and gives me head.

I sway, I almost topple over, but I manage to rest myself awkwardly on my elbows and my shackled wrists.

The pleasure is exquisite. His tongue is nimble beyond imagining. I shout out loud, my bare thighs clamping round his head.

Within a few heartbeats, he laps me cleverly to my climax and, as I flail about, I feel myself begin to fall …

‘Wake up, love! You’re missing your favourite episode. It’s nearly finished.’

Someone’s gently shaking my arm and I lurch back into consciousness. It’s a bit like that horrible jolting ‘stepping into a lift shaft’ sensation that occasionally wakes you from a dream of suddenly falling. Flying bolt upright, I try and catch my breath.

The bedside lamp and the television are back on, and The Detective is just about to pull the old bait and switch on some crafty criminal who thinks he’s very clever, but is just a microbe compared to the intellect he’s up against.

He’s on the case, totally focused and playing out his role, just as normal.

He’s a million miles away from the demon sex fiend who just licked my cunt.

There’s a funny noise and I suddenly realise that it’s my teeth chattering.

A warm familiar arm comes around my shoulder and I turn to Sam, who’s looking rather worried with a slight side order of guiltiness.

‘Are you OK, sweetheart?’ He gives me a squeeze. ‘I’m sorry about not waking you up sooner, but I was dozing myself and when I opened my eyes I realised this one is nearly over.’ He nods to the screen, where The Detective is leaning against the wall of the interrogation room, his arms folded and an arch slightly pitying expression on his handsome face.
The
miserable perp has just this moment realised that he’s been tricked.

‘Don’t worry, love … I’ve seen it before. I know what happens,’ I find myself saying.

Sam is so sweet. I never realised that he knew what my favourite episodes were, and it was so thoughtful of him to actually worry that I was missing one.

I make a decision, reach for the remote and snap off the telly.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ Sam demands, but he’s smiling. ‘You’ve been looking forwards to this for weeks. Aren’t you going to watch it all?’

‘Nah … I’ve seen enough for tonight.’ I wriggle out of his arms, touch his dear face and then push on his shoulders to encourage him to lie back on the bed. ‘I promised you a blow job, didn’t I?’ I tug down the covers and find a pleasing erection springing eagerly from his groin.

What on earth has he been dreaming about? It couldn’t be as vivid as mine, surely, but something’s got him up and at the ready.

‘Nice …’ I murmur, letting my fingers walk up his thigh until they reach the cradle of his groin. He lets out a gasp as I make a circle around his cockhead. ‘But what’s brought this on?’ I punctuate the question, by leaning forwards to give him a nice but naughty licking.

Sam puffs out his lips and starts to wriggle a little. He tosses his curly head on the pillow when I point my tongue and start to probe.

‘I had this dream … this weird dream …’ he pants. ‘It was about you and him …’

When I open my eyes and glance sideways at his face, he’s nodding towards the television.

A strange unease stirs in me, but it’s not fair to break off from my task now, so I continue.

‘You were in the interrogation room with him, and he had you handcuffed, and it all got a bit fruity.’

I pop up.

‘What happened?’

‘He was touching you … and he spanked you … and then he gave you head.’

The room starts to revolve a little, and I’m back there … cowering, ready and yearning, before my hero.

‘God, it was hot,’ goes on Sam, still moving uneasily against the pillows, his eyes closed, and licking his lips. ‘Really horny … we shall have to do that spanking thing one of these days, I think … Would you like that?’

‘Yeah, it’d be fun,’ I whisper, feeling wildly turned on again but, at the same time, slightly terrified.

‘Hey, don’t leave me high and dry, babe!’ Sam protests, reaching out towards me and pulling me back in the direction of his dick again.

I comply, and begin to suck him slowly and industriously in the lamplight, but the hairs on the back of my neck are prickling and crawling.

How can Sam have had the same dream as I did? How can he have seen what I dreamt he was seeing through the glass?

My mouth still full of my boyfriend, I can’t help glancing sideways towards the television, and I nearly do him a mischief when I see the screen all aglow again.

And there, bathed in the same blue-toned eldritch radiance as before, is The Detective. He’s sitting on the edge of his metal table, his suited arms crossed and a silky smirk on his broad handsome face.

What are you doing? You’re not real! You’re a dream! Sod off!

I close my eyes and apply myself to my delicious task, but, when I weaken a moment later, I sneak a sideways peek at the screen and find him still there and smirking …

And, as he reaches for his zip, his familiar eyes gleam red as coals.

The Distraction

HE’S BACK AGAIN
. Distracting me. He’s not doing anything he shouldn’t be doing. Not at the moment. But just his presence in the room makes me flaky and unable to concentrate.

Why, oh why, does he have to work in
our
offce? Surely there’s a place for him elsewhere?

But it seems not. Apparently there isn’t a spare desk in the entire building other than one alongside mine here in Personnel.

So I’ve got the freelance IT guy who’s installing the company’s new computer system loitering in my personal space for the next six weeks. And it’s going to be a long six weeks if he insists on hanging around, flexing his muscles, and God knows what else, right under my nose.

It’s a conservative firm and a conservative office. Suits and ties for the guys, and smart skirts and blouses for us women. A good thing really for a forty-year-old bird like me. I’d look stupid in skimpy tops and jeans with a chunky figure like mine. OK, women my age do wear those kinds of outfits, but I like to preserve a sense of decorum, you know?

Not much decorum in me when I steal a glance at ‘him’, though. It’s hot today, muggy as hell, and he’s in a tight black T-shirt that clings to his pecs and abs and the muscles of
his
arms. I’m not a techie, so I’ve no idea what he’s doing, but whatever it is it looks suspiciously as if he’s posing at the same time.

Lounging back in his chair, he flaunts himself at me, sitting in a way that automatically draws attention to his crotch. Or is that just me who’s unable
not
to look at it? To add insult to injury, or just an additional, slavering layer to temptation, he’s a biker too. Which means tight leather bike jeans and heavy menacing boots with zips and buckles.

Oh, God.

Why am I letting these things get to me? He’s just not my type, on top of the fact that he appears to be nearly twenty years younger than me too. I just don’t do the cougar thing, but even so, I can’t stop imagining him taking off his clothes. Imagining it again.

He’s gym-toned and tight and he’s got gilded-satin skin. In my mind that extends to every bit of him. With the magnificent exception of his cock. My picture of that is of a ruddy monster, thick and veined and hot, hot, hot.

Pretending to focus on the top of a heap of personnel files – old ones, on paper, that are going to have to be manually inputted into the new system – I picture Edward, my lust object, getting naked.

Slowly, in an insultingly leisurely tease, he stands up, turns towards me, and starts tugging the hem of his dark T-shirt out of his waistband. Tug, tug, tug, he tweaks at it until finally it’s loose, and then in a smooth animal action, he peels it off.

Oh, his body is just beautiful. It’s a dream but I know it’s real too. Like heather honey his torso gleams and my fingers slide over the manila surface of the files, experiencing the mundane stuff as firm flesh and silky skin.

He stares at me, forcing me to look at him. But not just
his
body, his handsome face too. And handsome he is, with dark-blue eyes, a tender but masculine mouth and a rakish little goatee beard that matches thick brown hair brushed straight back from his brow.

Very deliberately, he touches his own nipple, drawing attention to the single piercing there, and immediately I wonder if he’s pierced anywhere else. His ocean-blue eyes glitter mischievously, as if he’s heard me.

‘Do you want me to show you it?’

His hands are on his heavy belt buckle, fingers tapping.

‘Jane, do you want me to show you it? The new login procedure?’

I blink like a fool. He’s actually leaning across in his seat, reaching to twist my keyboard towards him.

‘Um … yes … please. Is it sorted now?’

A waft of some deliciously unctuous male cologne floats my way, tickling my nostrils, filling my head. And that’s not all that floats. He’s been sweating, but it’s not bad. It’s raw. It makes my mouth water, and not
just
that. A million hormones fire and it’s not just the humidity that makes this place a jungle. We’re like beasts responding to ancient primitive signals.

Mate. Mate. Mate.

He gives me a slick little smile, the bastard, because he knows.

For five minutes or so, we do some kind of computer dance. I barely pay any attention. I suppose my subconscious is resisting the information – in order to provide me with reasons to seek him out again.

As he pushes his chair back on his castors, and says, ‘Now you do it’, he’s fingering his belt just the way he did in my daydream.

Oh, God!

That belt conjures all sorts of fantasies. Ones I’m not quite sure I understand. He might as well show me the computer manual. It’s all arcane mystery, but I know it makes sense to him, that it’s powerful.

I muck it up. I make a mess of the login and the damn thing locks me out again.

‘Naughty, naughty, Jane. You weren’t paying attention. I ought to smack your bottom for wasting my time.’

He laughs, every bit as naughty as he accuses me of being. But in those blue eyes, there’s a deadly serious threat.

I ought to tell him not to be so cheeky. That we don’t make jokes like that in this office. But I can’t. I’m paralysed. Rapt. Frozen, yet burning in a column of heat, seeing myself across those leather-clad knees, my bum bare.

‘Come on, Jane, let’s try it again,’ he says softly.

Perspiration slides between my breasts as I apply my fingers to the keyboard.

After lunch, it’s even hotter.

I managed to get logged in earlier and, satisfied, Edward moved on to another terminal. I felt bereft, abandoned, insulted. Then I remembered that all the sexy stuff was purely in my mind and he probably thinks I’m just a silly old uptight middle-aged bitch.