Control. Charlotte Stein
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and quite dull, there’s probably an equal amount who view said women as repressed cauldrons of lust.
I’m pretty sure he sensed my boiling cauldron.
I think he felt I was a certain type—the type who won’t admit they want it, not even to themselves. But when he pressed me up against the door to the back and then shoved me through, I didn’t deny anything. My insides shimmied to think of this big handsome man having me up against something. Just doing it, without columns or questions or things neatly arranged.
Even better than that, it had come to me in a sudden flash that he might be fucking me to get the job. Of course, such an idea could have put a damper on things—what a terrible person I am! How awful, how seedy! Such a shame that thinking the word seedy only made the whole thing sweeter—perhaps because the job is so nothing, so pathetic. It’s a sales assistant job. It requires all the skill and ability of a tomato.
But I’m a sucker for a tomato that lies on the casting couch for me, apparently.
When he had bent me over my kitchen table, I don’t mind admitting that I moaned aloud. I moaned and pushed my hand into my knickers before he even got there, skirt shoved rudely up, finger firm on my clit.
I was as swollen as anything, just swimming in cream and buzzing to the touch, while in my head I had imagined the casting couch version of him asking what it would take. Would I give him the job for a nice hard fuck? What about if he let me fuck him? His rough stubbled face would twist into a grin on that one.
The expression he didn’t make makes me wet, just thinking about it.
Back in reality, he had just kicked my legs apart. Grunted something like oh yeah, you really need it, huh? While the same thought sung in my mind and my clit fluttered and pulsed to feel my knickers being wrenched down my legs.
There’s nothing like a horny boy, and he was very horny indeed. He had bent me over the kitchen table and knelt between my legs, thrusting his tongue roughly into my pussy and all through my slit, juicing me up for his prick.
He needn’t have made the effort, however. And I felt it was only perfunctory anyway—a little flourish to show what a clever stud he was, before the main event.
The main event was glorious. As I sit here, going over the whole thing, I can almost feel the rough wood of my kitchen table, drawing against my cheek. The way the edge had bitten into my fingers as I held onto it, and the sound of latex snapping and my own trembling breaths rubbing through my aching body.
His grunts turned me on more, though. His urgent grunts, sawing back and forth as he jolted against me. And then his bruising grip on my hips and my bare arse, while his thick cock stretched and fucked into me.
I remember what he had said, shortly before he shot inside me. I remember because it almost made me giggle:
“You want it, you slutty little bookworm.”
But the giggle was cut short by the sudden realization that my feet were no longer touching the floor, prompting a fresh burst of arousal that turned into something more when, quite suddenly, he smacked one big rough hand down on my bare arse.
I had called out in twisting mixtures of pain and pleasure, feeling my pussy spasm around his jerking cock, gasping with relief when it became a tense and roughly unfolding orgasm.
And then even better, I had turned my head on the table and seen the person standing in the doorway—a person who could have been standing there for who knows how long and judging by the flush on his cheeks probably had been.
A very uptight and nervous sort of fellow, who ran when I caught him looking.
Of course I can’t hire him. When would we ever get any work done? I’m rocking in my seat right now simply thinking about him—anything more would be a complete disaster. Not to mention the travesty it would make of me, trying to give him an order. Clearly, he was not the type to obey commands without a whisper.
And that’s what I need. I need to be able to trust someone to follow my meticulous plans for my shop, whether I am here or not. The whole point of hiring an assistant is so that I can have a day off, a weekend off, a good night’s sleep. Maybe find some time to develop a torrid affair outside of work, instead of giving in to the voracious need to bonk potential assistants.
I have the whole thing laid out, and the lay out does not include rough sex in my kitchen.
Unfortunately, the second applicant does not turn up. And the third is just as wholly unsuitable as the first—a gum-chewing girl in an outfit I barely understand. Despite the fact that we’re not five years apart in age.
I’m ancient at twenty-eight, it seems.
By time I turn the open sign to closed and check and re-check the locks three times and climb the stairs to my flat.
I’m close to sure that it’s better to simply do everything yourself. I can rely on myself. I am trustworthy. Just look at the wonderful job I do of re-wording the advert for an assistant:
Reliable, hard-working, non-horny assistant required. Must have a thorough understanding of alphabetical filing. Experience working in either a bookstore or library desirable, but not essential.
Perhaps I should take out the word desirable. It just gives people the wrong idea, apparently. It gives them the idea to put their hand over mine, and then their hand on my thigh, and then they say things and suddenly we’re in the back of my store.
Later on, when I’m lying in bed pretending to myself that I’m watching The Office, I think about his tattoo. The one high up on his left bicep. It had been some sort of twisted artistic thing, something that I’ve got no idea about—but the blues and greens had drawn my eye. I like a man with tattoos.
Or at least, I think I do. It’s been a long time since I really thought about what I like, if at all. There was Greg, who beguiled me with his urgent forceful manner and his weird business-speak: all those alien words that I felt free to invent dirty meanings for.
When he rapped into his mobile that he needed to draw a line underneath all forward planning and brand to influence, my head had filled up with images of intricately constructed foreplay games and a big red S for slut stamped on my arse.
Sadly, I had been mistaken.
I was mistaken in Kevin, too. Kevin liked to speed walk. He went for power runs. I had high hopes for our bedroom adventures, but sadly his can-do up up up attitude did not extend to sex.
I think I may just be too difficult to please. Even today’s encounter, on reflection, doesn’t seem that exciting. Despite the fact that just remembering the wood against my cheek and the sound of harsh breathing in the tiny downstairs kitchen sets me off again.
I stop pretending completely that the television is holding my attention and play him back in my head, instead. The couple in the flat next door to mine—they own the pet store next door, too—are going at it, and it makes for a good soundtrack. Headboard banging against the wall, lots of grunts and sighs…they usually don’t make much of a fuss, but this time I definitely hear Jeanette, crying out with something that could possibly be real pleasure. It makes me wonder if I sound the same when I’m with someone.
It makes me wonder what I’m missing out on, if timid Jeanette’s getting better sex than me.
I press my finger against my still aching clit and sigh, just to hear my own voice. Then louder when I rub, gently, then louder yet to think of someone over me. The first applicant, with his sinewy arms and his tattoos and his narrow sly face, all rough with stubble. I imagine said stubble scraping against my sensitive places—my tight nipples and the soft expanse of my thighs and my clit—oh God rub my clit.
I’m wet before I know it and clutching at the pillow, the first applicant turning quickly into the usual suspects: that hottie from my latest favorite movie, that waiter from Delmonicos with the weird manner and then weirder yet…oh Lord, I always go weirder yet when I’m this close, body tensing and mind homing in on things I didn’t