I open the laptop, turn it on. We get a dozen folders to look at. Each one is a different colour. Colours are much easier to work than numbers, or letters. They don’t somersault all over the page.
Tom slides down next to me on the sofa. ‘You colour-code them?’
I sort of nod, and my throat makes a tight, hoarse noise.
‘Interesting,’ he says, and then points to one of them. ‘Show me these.’ The red folder. My hand shakes as I click on it. He’s got no idea what’s in here, but I do. And I’m about to show it to my accountant. MY ACCOUNTANT. I don’t need to hold my breath, because I can’t breathe anyway. My hand is shaking so much that I keep misclicking on the icon. ‘Stupid laptop,’ I mutter, as I go in for another attempt. This time, Tom bats my hand away and does it himself.
An image pops up on the screen. We have black and white, we have lingerie, we have tasteful lighting and we have the very velvet sofa that the two of us are sat on. We also have a woman leaning over the arm, dark hair cascading forwards and obscuring her face, as her husband does her in the arse.
‘Oh’ Tom says. That’s it. Just ‘oh’. He shifts a little in his seat. We both sit there and stare at the picture, and I wonder what on earth happens now, because I’m so hot and so tense and so turned on that I think I might faint.
‘Do you want to see the rest?’ I blurt out.
‘Yes,’ he says, and there’s something very definite about his tone. It’s the same one he uses when he’s going through my record books and asking me if that’s a 5 or a 3. It’s familiar, and it makes me just brave enough to say what I say next.
‘I didn’t know,’ I continue, as I awkwardly try and set the thing going.
‘Know what?’
‘That you’re…that you’re a bit of a pervert.’
His jaw goes tight, and I know I’ve gone too far. ‘I could say the same thing about you,’ he points out. ‘I’ve been doing your accounts for the past three years and I had no idea you did this sort of thing.’ One big hand gestures at the screen, as we flick on to the next shot. A close-up. The guy has pulled his cock almost all the way out. A whimper slips out of me as I look at it.
‘Please don’t tell anyone,’ I beg him, half my nerves screaming with arousal, the other half screaming with fear.
Tom glances across at me, his blue eyes heavy lidded, his mouth soft and loose. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he takes the laptop from me and sets it on his knee, angling it so I still get a clear view of the screen. Then he reaches for the hem of my skirt and lifts it up. The movement is clumsy, with his arm bent at this awkward angle, but I’m too busy being shocked to worry about it. The picture moves on, just as Tom Hunt curves his fingers over the swell of flesh pushing out against my sensible no VPL knickers. He covers me with his hand, but he doesn’t rub. He squeezes.
Oh. My. God.
I can feel the pressure of that contact all the way to the ends of my hair. I lift out of the seat slightly, my shoulders digging back, my hips surging against his hand. I grab the arm of the sofa, the feel of the velvet the only thing that helps me fight off the whopper of an orgasm I’m on the brink of. I cannot come all over his hand. He’s my accountant, for goodness’ sake. He has a good job, a proper job, the sort of job I would have been doing if I was someone else, someone not completely blind to letters and numbers.
‘Don’t you like it?’ he asks me, and his voice is strained. ‘Am I not doing it right?’
There’s no way I can answer that without incriminating myself, so I clamp my lips tight together and say nothing, as he continues to squeeze and the picture flicks on and the throb between my thighs becomes a roar. I swear he must be able to feel my clit pressing into his palm. It’s so hard it’s like a little girly erection, right there between my legs. I want to fuck him with it, right in his mouth, like he did with Amber.
He’s turned around in his seat now, and he’s watching me so intently that I can feel his gaze on my skin like an extra pair of hands. He stops squeezing, and I nearly die. The picture flicks on again, showing my favourite image, the one where he’s spreading her arse cheeks wide and is buried all the way inside her. I turn my face away, biting down into my lip, wanting to scream with frustration, wanting to look, too afraid to do anything but fight this.
‘Don’t you want to look?’ Tom sounds confused. I know how he feels.
‘I…er…’
‘It’sOK,’ he tells me. ‘I don’t mind. Do you want me to touch you some more?’
I’m nodding before I even know I’m doing it. Nodding so much my teeth clack together and it’s a miracle my head doesn’t fall off.
He lifts his hand, angles it in, slides the tips of his fingers under the elastic of my knickers, and then stops. ‘On one condition.’
‘What?’ I huff out. I’m hardly in a condition to speak, and now he wants to negotiate?
‘You have to look at the pictures while I’m touching you.’
I shouldn’t do this. I should pull his hand out of my underwear, and close the laptop and send him away. I’ll find myself someone else to do my taxes and we’ll never speak of this again, probably because I’ve moved to a remote island and am reduced to foraging and taking photos of sheep for Sheep Lovers Weekly.
But my hands won’t seem to work, and the picture keeps changing, and his fingers dip down into the slick, slippery wetness that’s been building all day, and then he drags that hot moisture up to my clit and draws little circles around it with his index finger.
His hand feels strange, so different to mine, sort of hard and stiff as he rubs and rubs and the picture keeps changing. The two of them have stopped fucking now, and instead she’s on her knees, with one hand on his thigh and the other on his cock, which is heavy and veined and swollen. Even in black and white it’s obvious how much the guy needs to come.
The more I try to fight how much this turns me on, the closer my climax gets. It’s rumbling towards me now, like a freight train at speed, loud and unstoppable. I can feel it in my bum, in my vagina, in my breasts, in Tom’s hand and in my clit. I grab the edge of the sofa, the velvet rough against my palms as my hips lift. Tom keeps drawing the same slow, wet circle over me. He doesn’t change the pace, or the pressure. He won’t let me miss, even though I’m trying to.
And then it hits me. Or more accurately, he shoves me into it, lungs burning, mouth dry, muscles cramping. It is blissful, delicious agony, the storm taking over as I come and then I come some more, all over his hand and the gusset of my nude no-VPL knickers.
The last picture flashes onto the screen. One beautiful, perfect popshot. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve taken this picture, but I’ve never let myself fully surrender to the tug of arousal it creates in me before.
And I don’t know what to do now.
Tom eases his hand out of my underwear and I tug down my skirt, then grab the laptop and close it with more force than necessary. I can’t even bring myself to look at him. What do you say in this situation? Thanks, I needed that hardly seems appropriate, even if it is true.
‘Well,’ he says. ‘That was interesting. Did