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If that wasn’t bad enough, I imagine her calling me something more profane than Uncle C, screaming it until her voice is gone.
Against my will my eyes follow her as she walks to the door, her pert ass swaying seductively in a tight pencil skirt, her legs looking a mile long in those ridiculously high heels.
I am so fucked.
Tim comes in with a concerned expression on his face. He’s worked for me so long that he knows instantly when I’m in a bad mood.
“Should I cancel your afternoon meetings?” he asks quietly while I rifle through the purchase papers, not registering the text. The image of the tight white skirt and the unbuttoned shirt and the sun-kissed skin is all my brain seems to be able to focus on.
Yes. Cancel all the meetings. Send Willow in here. Go home so you don’t hear her screams while I fuck her until my dick breaks off.
“No,” I reply. I slap the file shut. “Frank is trying to keep the mineral rights. Make up an offer sheet that sets out that if I’m buying the land, I’m buying all the rights—mineral, water, everything.” I jot a note and hand him the file. “Hold my calls for ”—I flip my wrist around to see the time—“fifteen minutes.” It’s probably only going to take ten.
“Do you have any specific instructions for Ms. Kaplan?”
I close my eyes. Why, yes, Tim, I do. Specifically, I’d like Ms. Kaplan to come into my office, take off her skirt and shirt and sit in one of the white leather chairs in front of my desk. I’d like her insert a butterfly vibrator into her white lace panties and hold on to her orgasm until I tell her to come. And I won’t let her come for at least an hour, which is only a fraction of the punishment the woman deserves for finagling her way into my office and then flaunting her juicy tits in my face.
I wipe a hand across my mouth, surprised that there’s no drool, and meet Tim’s disapproving gaze.
“No. No instructions for Ms. Kaplan,” I manage to croak out. I shouldn’t feel this way about a girl so young. I know this. Everyone knows this. Everyone but Willow.
“Perhaps Ms. Kaplan should be moved over to Kent Kennedy’s office. I know that they could use a few more hands to close the Bancroft merger,” my assistant suggests gently.
Kent Kennedy is ten years younger than me and gets stopped regularly on the street by casting agents. My blood surges violently. I don’t want Willow within ten feet of his office.
“She stays here.”
Tim opens his mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to chastise me, but at my glare, he wisely snaps his chompers together and leaves.
As the door closes behind my assistant, I catch a glimpse of Willow leaning against Tim’s desk and nearly nut in my pants. Damn. I need to take the edge off or I’m not going to be able to function.
I can barely put two coherent words together as it is. I push to my feet and walk stiffly to the connecting private bathroom.
“Alexa, play Bach. Volume 10.”
Toccata in D minor blares out of the speakers. I unzip my trousers, shove down my underwear and jerk my turgid shaft free.
I lean against the door and let myself imagine what it would be like if I said screw principles and decency and took what Willow was so freely offering. Maybe if I was a normal man, one who liked vanilla sex under the covers with the lights off, accepting Willow’s gift would be fine.
But I’m not a normal man. My perversions are filthy and dark. I don’t want Willow merely tied to my chair waiting for me. I want her on her knees. I want her bound, cuffed, gagged. I want to dress her up in tiny white dresses with lace and bows. I want to roll pure white stockings over those long legs. I want her to sit on my lap while I feed her one spoonful at a time. I want to pull her long honey-blonde tresses, expose her delicate neck, and fuck her while she screams, “Daddy, do it harder,” until her voice gives out.
The organ in my palm grows hotter and harder at my licentious thoughts. I’d sit her on the marble counter in this small office bathroom. She’d spread her legs. Her hands would tremble with the need to touch me, but I’d tell her to keep her palms pinned to the stone.
The crotch of her panties would be soaked with her arousal. She’d run her tongue over her lips, imagining my cock in her mouth.
I jerk myself harder, spreading my pre-cum over the shaft, gripping my balls tight against my groin. She should be doing this. She should be on her fucking knees, with her hands tied at the base of her spine, working her wet tongue all over the hard-on she produced. That little girl has no idea what she’s asking for.
