imagine all those solid muscles on his chest pushing against me as he pinned me to his bed. Our grunts and groans would fill the air, and our hands would be all over each other, touching and caressing in our most sensitive spots. He'd take me and pound his thick, stiff manhood into me. I'd feel that stirring inside me; that moment of fulfillment when my whole body shook with the rapture only he could give me.
I groaned and rolled onto my side; I had to stop thinking about that stuff. He was my boss, I was the hired help, and even that was only going to last a week; correction, six days. Day one was already over, and I'd learned that his family and old acquaintances were a few coins short of a full piggy bank, and that he was very much attracted to me.
"Come on, Trix, you know this isn't going to work," I muttered to myself. "He's a rich man and you're not any of those, so stop thinking about him."
My mind betrayed me by conjuring up images of him completely naked. My face flushed, and I grabbed a nearby pillow and stuffed it over my head. Damn my mind to hell in a hand basket. I had to get over this infatuation by tomorrow or things were going to be worse for me.
The next day I still wasn't quite over my I-love-my-boss mindset, and went to his house with dread mixed with schoolgirl glee. I knocked and he answered with a smile on his face. I nearly melted on the spot, but kept myself together by imagining my putty self in my strong mold of self-confidence and abstinence. "You don't have to knock. You work here now," he pointed out to me.
I shrugged. "It's still your house," I countered.
"Yes, I suppose so," he agreed. He stepped aside and I stepped inside.
"So what's on the agenda today?" I asked him.
He pulled out the little black book, and I looked over the details. There were more phone calls, and they were written in red ink. "This looks serious," I told him.
Benson sighed and gave a nod. "It is, but I hope to be laughing at myself tomorrow for worrying so much about it today."
I handed back the book. "So what do I need to do in these phone calls? Take your side of the conversation and make up my own story for the other line?" I teased him.
He smirked, and shook his head. "No, but that would be tempting to see what you would come up with."
"Ah, you say that now, but you've never seen my creative stories," I countered.
"Blood-chilling gore?" he guessed.
"Something far worse."
"Suspenseful murders?"
"Even more deadly."
He laughed. "I give up, what are your creative stories about?"
I leaned in toward him with my face a mask of fear and horror. "Sparkling unicorns."
Benson blinked in bewilderment. "You're joking."
I grinned. "If I was joking I would have made a somebody-walks-into-a-bar joke."
"Then you're right, that would be terrifying and I don't think I would want to read it."
I sighed and shrugged. "Nobody knows the sufferings of a starving artist."
He looked over my solid frame with no sign of this starvation I spoke of. "You're right, a lot of people wouldn't know it from looking at you."
"Hardy-har-har," I quipped. "But you still haven't answered my question."
"What was the question?"
"What am I supposed to do while you have all these phone conversations?"
He grinned; it was an evil, you'll-regret-asking-that kind of grin. He gestured with his finger to follow him, and I obeyed him with all the humor of a funeral march. He led me down the hall to the study and over to the desk, where sat a pile of paperwork in folders. "This is what you need to do."
I nervously glanced over the papers. "They need burning?"
Benson looked alarmed until he realized I was joking, which was only partly true. "Each of these folders have different assignments. Some you have to call and set up phone appointments between the person and myself, others are to arrange for purchases and sales of stock."
Now I was really nervous. "And your secretary is the one who's supposed to be doing this?"
"Yes."
"And if I
I groaned and rolled onto my side; I had to stop thinking about that stuff. He was my boss, I was the hired help, and even that was only going to last a week; correction, six days. Day one was already over, and I'd learned that his family and old acquaintances were a few coins short of a full piggy bank, and that he was very much attracted to me.
"Come on, Trix, you know this isn't going to work," I muttered to myself. "He's a rich man and you're not any of those, so stop thinking about him."
My mind betrayed me by conjuring up images of him completely naked. My face flushed, and I grabbed a nearby pillow and stuffed it over my head. Damn my mind to hell in a hand basket. I had to get over this infatuation by tomorrow or things were going to be worse for me.
The next day I still wasn't quite over my I-love-my-boss mindset, and went to his house with dread mixed with schoolgirl glee. I knocked and he answered with a smile on his face. I nearly melted on the spot, but kept myself together by imagining my putty self in my strong mold of self-confidence and abstinence. "You don't have to knock. You work here now," he pointed out to me.
I shrugged. "It's still your house," I countered.
"Yes, I suppose so," he agreed. He stepped aside and I stepped inside.
"So what's on the agenda today?" I asked him.
He pulled out the little black book, and I looked over the details. There were more phone calls, and they were written in red ink. "This looks serious," I told him.
Benson sighed and gave a nod. "It is, but I hope to be laughing at myself tomorrow for worrying so much about it today."
I handed back the book. "So what do I need to do in these phone calls? Take your side of the conversation and make up my own story for the other line?" I teased him.
He smirked, and shook his head. "No, but that would be tempting to see what you would come up with."
"Ah, you say that now, but you've never seen my creative stories," I countered.
"Blood-chilling gore?" he guessed.
"Something far worse."
"Suspenseful murders?"
"Even more deadly."
He laughed. "I give up, what are your creative stories about?"
I leaned in toward him with my face a mask of fear and horror. "Sparkling unicorns."
Benson blinked in bewilderment. "You're joking."
I grinned. "If I was joking I would have made a somebody-walks-into-a-bar joke."
"Then you're right, that would be terrifying and I don't think I would want to read it."
I sighed and shrugged. "Nobody knows the sufferings of a starving artist."
He looked over my solid frame with no sign of this starvation I spoke of. "You're right, a lot of people wouldn't know it from looking at you."
"Hardy-har-har," I quipped. "But you still haven't answered my question."
"What was the question?"
"What am I supposed to do while you have all these phone conversations?"
He grinned; it was an evil, you'll-regret-asking-that kind of grin. He gestured with his finger to follow him, and I obeyed him with all the humor of a funeral march. He led me down the hall to the study and over to the desk, where sat a pile of paperwork in folders. "This is what you need to do."
I nervously glanced over the papers. "They need burning?"
Benson looked alarmed until he realized I was joking, which was only partly true. "Each of these folders have different assignments. Some you have to call and set up phone appointments between the person and myself, others are to arrange for purchases and sales of stock."
Now I was really nervous. "And your secretary is the one who's supposed to be doing this?"
"Yes."
"And if I
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