Community Service
Chapter 1
Simone was more drunk than she’d intended to get. She knew this for three reasons. The first was that on the walk from the car to the flat, she’d gone over twice on her heel – her ankles and hips were loose and her stride was less forced than usual. The second was that she’d stopped tensing her stomach muscles about an hour ago, which was normally unthinkable given the tightness of the cashmere shift dress into which she’d poured herself that morning. And the third was that she couldn’t make sense of how an important potential client of the reputation management PR agency she worked for was jerking himself off, right there on her doorstep.
‘Oh, that’s right,’ Finchley moaned.
How did she get here? She’d had no intention of making the acquaintance of his trouser contents when she’d agreed to drinks earlier. In fact, she’d had no intention of agreeing to drinks earlier – he was as wrinkled as a drowned corpse and only half as attractive – but Tony, her boss, had made it clear that refusal wasn’t an option when he was capable of gifting them a half-a-million-pound contract. So she’d spent the evening drinking more champagne than she’d wanted, pretending to be more interested in his business than she was, and making all the right noises as he explained how much of a swinging big dick he was in the world of finance. Only now the swinging big dick’s actual dick was out. On her doorstep.
She’d tried to keep things professional. She’d laughed off the compliments and the double entendres, made it clear she had a boyfriend, and had consistently steered the conversation away from anything too personal. But on the shared chauffeur-driven lift home that he’d been adamant she accept, he’d made the kind of overtures that only a man with too much money and too little charm would attempt. He’d then insisted on walking her to her door, having deliberately asked the driver to stop far enough away to do so.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me to … come inside?’ he’d asked, pressing himself against her, hard on his own wordplay.
She’d been here before, of course. Different bloke, same lame game. It was a lose-lose situation. If she tried to extricate herself with a polite excuse, her vagina would be unfinished business to him, the threat of his penis hanging over her like a fleshy Damoclean sword. If she kneed him in the bollocks and went inside to eat half a block of cheese, she’d get into all types of shit at work.
It was a pussy-based puzzler alright. A veritable Snatch-22. But as she’d been weighing up her options, wondering how to play this grim hand for the best, he’d taken matters into his own hands. Literally.
She’d no idea when he’d undone his trousers, but there it was. He was wearing loose cotton boxers, doubtless chosen in the belief his testicles should be as free from restraint as he was, and his cock should enjoy the privilege of absolute freedom to go wheresoever it chose. She glanced at said cock now. It was small, with an excess of foreskin despite its hardness, like a child swamped by an adult’s polo neck sweater. In the streetlamp’s yellow sodium glow, it looked like it had been smothered in iodine in preparation for an operation. She swallowed the acrid bile that rose in her throat.
‘Are you sure you don’t want this in you?’ he said.
Quite sure. What she wanted to do was tear it off and throw it in a storm drain, but even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew she wouldn’t. She was at a critical point in her career. As far as Tony was concerned, watching some guy pound his prick in order to secure a big account could be considered a business transaction of sorts. A case of Jizz Pro Quo. Quid Pro Cum. He wouldn’t give a shit. How the hell had it come to this? Some people drew the line at overtime, for fuck’s sake! Thank heavens she’d had a few though. It would hopefully mean that, come the morning, the specifics of what was happening now would be harder to recall – the edges blunted, the detail in soft focus.
‘I’m going to come,’ Finchley mumbled.
It was the most considerate he’d been all evening because it gave her time to step out of the way of the globules of semen erupting like white hot lava from the skin folds around his bellend. She watched it spatter onto the black lettering of the doormat beneath her feet. Welcome. Less of a greeting, more a commentary on his performance.
‘Do you have a tissue?’ he managed, all breathy swagger gone now, his face slick with the effort of ejaculating.
She wordlessly reached inside her bag and pulled out the monogrammed napkins she’d taken from the elite new bar they’d ended up in. There hadn’t been a chance to get a word in edgeways earlier, let alone a selfie, so she’d intended to take some arty shot of them for her Insta to serve as proof she’d been there. She handed them over. Probably better not to have a memento of the evening after all. He dabbed at his rapidly diminishing cock, a deflating balloon in its final death throes, and tucked himself back into his trousers. By the time he made his excuses to leave, he was almost contrite, poor lamb. Perhaps he was fleetingly seeing himself for what he was: just a little man with a small dick and a narrow view of the world, spilling his seed onto a virtual stranger’s coir matting. Still, the introspection wouldn’t last.
She went inside and washed her hands, removed her make-up, gulped down two glasses of water, and looked at herself squarely in the mirror above the sink. The shit she’d put up with for this job. She’d better bloody well get this promotion.