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Curiosity tugged. As I waited to hear back about which projects, if any, I’d been assigned, my mind drifted to the inciting email. I’d only managed to get my hands on one of Boucher’s books, and an electronic version at that. I was happy to get anything of course, but his seemed the kind of work to be held and experienced viscerally.
There were print copies. Mostly on eBay, posted by the lucky sods who had snagged them when they were still new. All for prices well outside what I could afford, even if I ate only rice, with nothing but dreams of anything beyond instant coffee. I’d already been a student once.
But the words from that digital copy of his work came back to me. Line by line, phrase by phrase. Those simple letters arranged in a way that left me glad to be alive. No matter how bad life got. The literary equivalent of the sentiment ‘any day above ground is a good day.’
Boucher spoke to me though those backlit pages. Mostly read in the dark to get the effect. I also didn’t want anything else to be able to distract me from the experience. Like how people often turn the lights off before a movie, even when they’re at home.
The projector of my mind hummed as his beautiful words created images. I’d never really understood the near animosity between literature and visual art. They might have different ways of going about it, but were ultimately united in their goals.
I couldn’t draw, or even really paint. Nor was I really much of a writer, myself. I would never be published, but my career, such as it was at that point, had been in publishing, and I loved it. I loved to read.
Hugo Boucher was on another level, though. He was absolutely beautiful, in body as well as in print. Although I didn’t have too much reference to go on as far as the former. Photographs were scarce, much like his treasured output.
There were rumors of art, paintings that no one had seen. Not to mention another book he’d been working on for over five years. I stared at the single photograph of him on the company website and it almost felt like he looked at me across space and time. Rendered in a stoic black and white, doing little justice to his true Norman features. His full lips held a cigarette. A risky move in the days of health cartels and easy offense. Though, in his defense, the image had been captured over ten years ago, its subject an obstinate youth of 25.
It was kind of crazy, considering I’d never met the man, but somehow I felt like I knew him, like he understood me. And I’d had a torrid crush on him since I turned the first page
And now? Him being my new boss? It felt a little like fate.
I hadn’t meant to do it. My hand was moving very much of its own accord. Or so I told myself. To avoid the guilt if nothing else. Girls weren’t supposed to do that sort of thing. It was taboo for everyone, sure, but it was somehow more forgivable for guys. But as the button loosened on my pants, forgiveness, and indeed purity, were the furthest things from my mind.
My experience was short, but my imagination was vivid. It wasn’t long until I was on a bed, at least in my mind, my hand between my thighs, like it was in the waking world. The two versions of myself working in concert, striving toward the same goal.
I gasped as my clit throbbed, roused by the sudden attention, almost painfully sensitive.
The sound of the door made me moan in anticipation. A smell of musk filling my senses as he came in, naked from the waist up. His lower half clad only in a pair of silk pajama bottoms. A magnificent hard-on already outlined in the front of the pitch black material. As he approached, my imagined self slipped my fingers from my pussy. Allowing him full access for whatever he wanted to do. I was completely his, and he seemed to know it.
I could feel the edge of the bed dip with the extra weight, as Hugo climbed up. Starting at my feet, he kissed his way all the way up my open legs. Working his way gradually, teasingly up my thighs toward my waiting pussy. Aching for his tongue. A gift he was more than happy to give. Running the flat of his tongue against my tender, virgin lips, drawing a moan out of me in kind. Playing me like a slide-whistle.
The gasp ripped out of me, my back lifting from the chair as I lightly worked my finger inside myself, while imagining Hugo Boucher eating me out on the bed. His light blond hair bobbing lightly between my thighs as he made me scream, using only his tongue. Getting me ready for what was coming next.
