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Next, I released erection and grabbed the pad setting in on the desk in front of me.
I wanted to cum on it, imagining it against her pussy but a huge, dried gob of my cum would surely be noticed. So, I went for plan B. I spit into my hand then jerked off, letting myself go into the palm of my hand.
What I did next was wrong. But I didn’t care.
I slipped two fingers through the white cream and rubbed it onto the center of the pad. Just enough so she wouldn’t notice, but I would know.
I’m a sick fuck.
After, I walked back to her desk, put the little case in its place, then picked up the teacup and licked the rim, stopping for a moment on the spot where her pink lipstick stained the white china, then put it back in place and closed her desk drawer.
I’m still lost in the memory of my madness when I glance at the screens from across the room.
Chastity leans across her desk, the concealed camera on her computer monitor mere inches from her left breast. My throat tightens and my still-hard dick thickens again.
I button up my pants and walk closer, watching her move across the different camera angles in front of me, heading for her supervisor’s desk. I don’t know the names of all the employees, but I’ve made it my business to know everyone she comes into contact with.
His is William Round. He started at Westwood Inc. five years ago, coming highly recommended by his previous employer. He has a wife and two kids, goes to the little deli across the street for lunch every day and orders the same pastrami sandwich.
Like I said, I’ve made it my business to know.
The man’s elbow is too fucking close to Chastity’s thigh. I'm tempted to go down there right now and tear his arm off, then punch him in the nuts with his own fist.
Chastity is my first obsession. My first foray into romantic mania.
I smirk at the screen, where the cameras follow the dark-haired girl with bangs over her brows. She walks with a natural sway to her full hips beneath the pink tiered skirt she’s sporting. Just how did whoever choose her to trap me manage to choose so perfectly? She’s everything I could possibly want, but nothing that anyone would expect.
The knock at the office door makes me jump, and I press a button, immediately feeling cold as one of the screens cuts away from Chastity to show the view of the corridor outside.
“Come on in,” I say when I see who’s there, pushing the buzzer on the top of my desk to allow entry.
George Claude, a robust fifty-year-old man, enters with manila envelopes in his hand. “Good morning, Mr. Carter,” he says in his thick Glaswegian accent, nodding with the slight half-smile of a man who’s utterly confident in his own abilities.
As well he should be.
He’s my personal private investigator. And when I say personal, I mean he works exclusively for me. He’s been on my payroll for the last decade. I pay him enough to keep him off the open market.
I trust this man with my life.
“Morning, George. I was expecting you. How are the kids?”
He nods. “They’re well, thank you, Mr. Carter. I have a good portion of the information you requested.”
I know that’s the end of the conversation when it comes to his personal life. With George, it’s all business during business hours. He doesn’t appreciate small talk. Which is just as well.
With a nod, he hands over the envelopes.
“We finished our final sweep of her apartment today after she left for work. There was nothing indicating any recording equipment, video or audio. In my professional opinion, it’s a complete coincidence that you came upon Chastity Nash. As well, the Uber driver was booked for driving under the influence and he is an official Uber driver. Well, he was until they let him go. I do not believe that someone would take on that sort of criminal charge, even if they were being paid to help set you up. With Chastity, it doesn’t make sense. She appears to just be an intern, here for the summer on the marketing program. Nothing shows her taking a payoff from anyone. Her cell phone records show very few calls. Most traceable to a father in West Virginia. Some to a few co-workers. And it was her co-workers that chose that bar. Not Miss Nash.” He pauses clearing his throat. “Sir, about your birth parents.”
I nod. He has been working for the last year to locate my birth parents. It’s no easy task, considering I knew nothing but my mother’s first name, the date I was dropped off at the Catholic mission, the clothes I was wearing and of course, my DNA sample.
