Overtime (8 page)

Jasper came in at eleven in the morning and went straight to his office, barely stopping to say hello to Valerie, and then shutting the door. Valerie’s heart hammered, even as she’d barely had the time to process what was going on. Another assistant, a nice young lady named Camille, caught her eye and made a surprised face, then got up and casually walked to Valerie’s desk.

“Is something wrong?” she whispered.

Valerie felt the pit of her stomach, sensitive all day, roil again. “Not that I know of,” she whispered back.

Can she tell I’m not wearing underwear?
She wondered.

“Maybe he heard about Starbucks,” Camille whispered. “It’s probably about time.”

For a moment, Valerie forgot about her underwear situation. “That could be,” she said. “I hope we get it.”

“Yeah, you worked really hard on that. You were still here every night when I left.”

Valerie darted her eyes at the other girl, suddenly wondering if she knew something. Camille blinked and Valerie decided it had just been a remark.

Suddenly, the door to Mr. Declan’s office opened, and Camille stood up straight.

“Could I see you for a moment?” he said to Valerie, then noticed Camille standing there. “Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning, Mr. Declan,” she said.

Valerie stood and smoothed her skirt. His eyes didn’t flicker at all, and he betrayed no interest in the region from her waist down. Despite herself, Valerie was a little disappointed: for some reason, even though she knew his self-control first hand, she’d imagined that the sight of her with no panties on would inflame him so much he’d come in, toss her on his desk, and fuck her into tomorrow.

Her cunt ached with the thought, actually, as she followed him into his office.

“Close the door,” he said, and Valerie’s heart leapt into her throat. This was it. She closed it and stood by, nervously, against the wall.

He sat in his big leather chair and looked at her, strangely. “Sit down,” he said, a touch impatient, and she did, carefully folding herself into a chair facing him, legs crossed at the ankles.

Stop acting weird
, she thought.

“Did we get Starbucks?” she asked, unable to think of anything else to say. He’d made quite clear that she was to make no advances, that her role was to sit back, do his bidding, and wait for him to make a move.

“We find out Thursday,” he said. “This week, I’d like you to be working on the retreat.”

Valerie nodded. The retreat happened every year. The three firm partners and the board went to the Declans’ summer home—actually a mansion—in the Hamptons for a long weekend, where they determined the strategy for the agency’s next year or so. On paper, it sounded simple, but she could only imagine the nightmare of logistics. Even getting that many important people to agree to a date would be a week-long hassle, to say nothing of the transportation, food, entertainment...

“By the end of this week I’d like a list of possible venues,” he said. “How well do you know the Hamptons?”

“I’ve never been,” Valerie admitted.

Jasper nodded. “Come to me if you have any questions about venues or towns.”

Valerie nodded, and they sat in silence for a moment, looking at each other, Valerie sitting straight up with her hands clasped together, Jasper lounging back in his chair, Manhattan visible through the big windows behind him.

“Is there anything else?” Valerie finally asked, too nervous to sit in silence any longer.

Jasper said nothing, but opened a drawer in his desk, fishing for something. Finally he pulled out a sheet of paper and balled it in one fist, slowly and deliberately, until it was a near-uniform sphere, and then he tossed it over his desk and behind Valerie.

She looked at it and then back at him as he settled back into his chair, clasping his hands together and leaning back. He looked like a king addressing his subjects, he thought.

“Pick it up,” he said in a low, smooth voice.

Valerie felt the rush of adrenaline course through her veins, making the skin over her entire body flush. She was simultaneously glad and dismayed that she’d taken off her underwear as she stood from her chair.

Consciously swaying, shifting her hips back and forth, she walked to where the ball of paper lay on the floor and bent over, ass high in the air.

“With your teeth,” he said.

Her hand was inches from the paper ball, and for several seconds, Valerie considered picking it up in her fingers, putting it in the trash, and walking out of the office. That would probably be the best decision, she knew.

She didn’t walk out.
 

She dropped to her knees. She put her hands on the floor on both sides of the ball of paper. She bent her elbows, her ass high in the air as she lowered her mouth to the edge of the paper ball, then took it between her teeth. It crinkled in her bite, dry and raspy.

“Bring it here,” he said, and Valerie understood. Still on her hands and knees she began crawling the seven feet toward him, the pencil skirt and blouse she wore impeding her progress, making her movements slow and wiggling. He held his hand on his knee, and she had to come up and kneel to drop it in his palm, looking up at him through her lashes.

“Good girl,” he said, and pleasure shot through Valerie’s body at the praise, at the knowledge that she’d pleased him. She swallowed, still on her knees, watching him.

“Are you wearing panties?” he asked.

“No, Mr. Declan,” she said.

“Stand up, turn around, and bend over,” he said.

She rocked back on her heels, wobbling a little as she stood, careful to keep her knees together, remembering his harlot comment last Friday when she’d been unseemly with him. Spinning on one shoe, she reached her arms for the floor, touching her toes, ass high in the air, her flesh straining against the fabric of her skirt.

His hands traveled slowly up the backs of her thighs, pushing the skirt in front of them, slowly exposing more and more of her skin to the air in the office, to Manhattan beyond his window. Nervously, she watched the door, knowing that she hadn’t thought to lock it and knowing that her backup assistant might come in at any moment with a call for him. The skirt reached her pussy and then slid over it, the cool air hitting her with a slight shock.

Finally, her skirt was entirely around her waist, every inch of her body from the bellybutton down exposed to anyone who might walk in and find her in the most compromising position she knew of.

Fingers brushed along the very outside of her lips, just barely sliding along their wetness.

“You’re very wet,” Jasper said in a low voice. “Are you enjoying this?”

Valerie swallowed, her head still upside down. “Yes,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

His fingers continued to glide, moving towards her clitoris, circling it, and then moving back to her entrance.

Put them in,
she thought.
Please put them in, I can’t stand this.

“You can straighten up and pull your skirt back down,” he said. He leaned back in his chair, one elbow planted on the armrest, hand held high in the air as he rubbed his fingers together. Valerie could see the slight shine of her wetness on those fingers as she shimmied the hem of her skirt past her hips again, relieved they hadn’t been caught, but disappointed that he’d only barely touched her. For just a moment she’d thought he might fuck her properly, bend her over and plow her deep, the way she craved.

Instead, she was standing in front of him, fully clothed again.

“Do you have lunch plans?” he asked.

She shook her head.

He reached into his wallet and pulled out a business card: the Regency Day Spa, Yolanda Espirov, Waxing.

“Please spend your lunch hour here, then. A full Brazilian. I find stubble irritating.”

Valerie blushed at her boss paying for her personal grooming and almost said something: a protest, a plea that she could pay for her own pussy waxing. Then she thought the better of it.

“Thank you,” she said, and walked back to her desk, sitting in front of her email, wondering how she was ever going to get anything done.

At lunchtime, she nervously walked to the spa, not too far away, and was greeted by a lovely blond receptionist, pots of orchids tastefully arranged around the blue tile sitting room. As she waited, Valerie sipped the Pellegrino the young woman had given her, wondering how many working women stopped in for a pussy waxing on their lunch break. From the looks of the waiting room, that number wasn’t zero, which made her feel a little better.

What if they’re all in strange, part-time submissive relationships with their bosses?
She wondered. She checked each of their faces carefully: mostly thin, twenties or thirties, women in slacks and blouses reading Cosmo, perfect manicures and pedicures.

Probably not
, Valerie thought before returning to her own Cosmo’s
article,
Fifty Ways To Surprise Him With Fruit In Bed!

A door opened. “Miss Bridge?” said a heavily accented woman wearing all-white. Valerie stood and followed her to a spa room, with a massage table covered in clean white sheets, more orchids, and candles lit everywhere. It smelled like lemon and sage, the whole room lit by a skylight.

“Please remove your skirt and underwear and I’ll be right back,” the woman said. Valerie took her skirt off, folded it and put it on top of a chest, and then laid back on the massage table, psyching herself up for the wax.

She’d never gotten the full Brazilian before. As far as she was concerned, a bikini wax hurt enough, and Brazilians were expensive.

The woman came back in with the pot of wax and a pile of muslin strips, then positioned herself at Valerie’s feet, pushing her legs apart and peering at her vagina with professional interest.

“You shave?” she said accusingly.

“Uh, yeah,” Valerie said to the ceiling.

The woman just clicked her tongue, shook her head, and began applying wax to Valerie’s outer labia.

Ten minutes later, it was done, and Valerie had broken out in a light sweat all over her body.

“Come out when you’re ready,” the woman said. “You look like you need a minute.”

After taking several deep breaths, Valerie sat up and then stood. Still wearing her heels and shirt but nothing else, she walked over to the full-length mirror and looked at herself, completely bare. She rubbed one hand across her hypersensitive but smooth lips, surprised at the baby-softness of the skin there.

She could get used to it, she thought.

As she put her skirt back on, zipping it and tucking in her blouse, the woman opened the door a crack to hand her a package wrapped in brown paper. Immediately, Valerie recognized Jasper’s style.

“Package for you,” the Russian woman said. If it was strange for someone to be sending her packages at the day spa, the other woman didn’t seem to notice.

Valerie took the box back to the table and quickly tore it open. The inside box was bright pink and the top lifted off easily to reveal lacy black panties
 
carefully laid on top of tissue paper.

Okay
, Valerie thought.
Is he testing whether or not I’ll put these on?
She frowned and lifted them, only to find that the crotch was surprisingly heavy, weighted down with something. Bringing the panties up to her face, Valerie held them up to the light and looked at them more closely, slipping a small flattened cylinder out of a pocket in the crotch.

It’s a vibrator
, she knew immediately. She’d heard of vibrating panties, of course, but never tried them out herself. Then, another thought occurred to her.

How do I turn them on?

There didn’t seem to be a switch or an answer anywhere in the box that she could find, and the answer dawned on her slowly: these were remote controlled.

Valerie did not have to wonder who had the remote control.

She put them on under her skirt, checking herself out in the mirror. She frowned at the slight panty line they left under her tight skirt and wished that Mr. Declan had gotten her a vibrating thong instead. But then, maybe a panty line was part of the game?