Chapter 3
Sherman
That pie. That blouse. That little tongue. That dollop of cream.
After watching Miranda lick her spoon clean during the meeting, there was no way I was going to be able to resist masturbating as soon as I could shut myself in my office. I shove my tie in my mouth, biting down on it to muffle my voice when I moan, “Oh, angel, yes!” My cock swells thicker as I stroke it beneath my desk, sweat breaking out on my temples the closer I get to cumming.
I spit my tie out a half second before the door swings open, horrified that I forgot to lock it. The angel in question shuffles inside with a stack of documents for me to sign, her cheeks pink.
“Miranda!” I squeeze my shaft so tight that my eyes cross to keep from cumming.
“Yes, sir?”
“You can’t come into my office without knocking,” I grumble, straightening my tie, wondering if she’s noticed how wrinkled and wet it is. “And I’ve told you repeatedly to call me ‘Sherman’.”
“I did knock, sir,” she says, ignoring my insistence that she call me by my first name for the umpteenth time. And fuck , she has noticed, her head tilted to the side, eyes pinned to my tie. “You said ‘yes’ when I asked if I could come in.”
Fuck, she heard me . I swallow hard, worried if she heard anything else she shouldn’t have. My cock jerks when Miranda leans over my desk to set the documents down, and then— sweet Jesus, help me! Now! —saunters around the right side of my desk.
“What are you doing?” I choke on my fear as I try to roll my chair further forward since there’s no time to stuff my cock back in my trousers and buckle my belt. If she finds out what I’m doing, I might as well kiss my career and company goodbye after she, rightfully so, runs screaming out of my office.
The front of Miranda’s thighs bump against the arm of my chair. We’re locked in a staring contest as she leans forward and lifts my collar.
“What are you doing?” I ask again, this time in a husky whisper, a shiver working its way down my spine and toward my balls with her standing so close.
Miranda takes her time tugging at my tie to loosen the knot, then lifts it over my head, her fingernails combing through my hair, making goosebumps of pleasure rise on my arms. “You have something on your tie, sir. I’d be happy to clean it for you.” She toys with it, slipping the silky material through her fingers over and over again, stroking it the way I’d love to have her stroke my dick.
“That won’t be necessary. I can have Barbara do it,” I say. Or at least, that’s what I think I did, considering my brain is continually misfiring as she pulls open my bottom right drawer to retrieve one of the extra ties I keep at the office, slowly unrolling it.
“Don’t be silly, sir,” she says, adding an extra emphasis to the word sir , drawing it out and making it sound naughtier than it should. She drapes the clean tie around my neck, attempting to knot it at the sideways angle. “It would be easier to tie it,” she whispers, swiveling my chair around, “if we face each other.”
Panicking, I reach for the papers she brought, shoving them down over my lap before she sees my cock. I go slack-jawed when she steps between my knees and says, “That’s better.”
My angel smiles so sweetly with no idea that I’m having heart palpitations the longer I have to ignore my dick, which is straining against the papers, begging for her soft hand, warm mouth, or even warmer pussy.
“Oops.” She giggles, unknotting the tie. “I messed it up.” I drop my head back on my chair, cratering the papers with my fist as I push my cock down, her powdered sugar scent in my nostrils as she moves closer, forcing me to widen my thighs to make room for her.
Her fingers fumble, and she laughs. “Whoops, got it wrong again.”
When she bends forward, attempting to knot it a third time, I get a view straight down the top of her blouse, confirming my suspicion at the meeting that she isn’t wearing a bra. I salivate at the sight of her creamy tits and lose what little control I have over my orgasm.
“Oh, angel, fuck, I can’t hold it in!”
Miranda’s jaw drops when I fling the papers to the side, grip my cock, and cum into my cupped hand instead of her pussy where I want it, my hips jerking off the seat with each spurt while she stares. Regret slams into me, mixing with the dizzying ecstasy as I squeeze out the last rope of cum. There goes everything I worked so hard for .
“I knew it!” she exclaims, eyes wide, locked on my dick and cum-coated hand.
I hurl my bulk out of my seat to rush around the desk.
“Mr. Fischer! Stop! You—”
“I’m sorry, I have to go.” I snatch my suit jacket from the brass hook screwed into the wall, using it to cover the front of my unzipped pants as I fling open my door with a bang and weave my way through the office building. I ignore Barbara when she asks me where I’m going so early and if she should clear my schedule.
I’m too choked up to tell her that the firm is screwed, all thanks to me and my reprehensible behavior. She’ll find out soon enough when Miranda brings the matter to HR and then sues the shit out of us for sexual harassment. She’ll deserve every penny she gets.
* * *
I’m reliving the same day on repeat, sitting in my leather recliner, refilling my tumbler of whiskey, waiting for my phone to ring. Each time it does, I close my eyes and say a prayer before I answer it, though so far, it’s only been Barbara calling to see if I’m feeling better and can return to work. I lied when I told her I had the flu, and that’s why I’ve been working from home. In reality, I’m simply sick to my stomach that, at any minute, my entire life is going to come crashing down around me, all because I couldn’t keep my filthy mind off my sweet Miranda or keep my dick in my pants until I got home.
Each night, I go to bed thankful that I’ve had one more day of reprieve before all hell breaks loose—confused, too, that I’ve skated by for so long, wondering why my partners aren’t kicking down my door, demanding an explanation or that I divest myself of the firm to protect it.
Friday night, when Barbara calls to ask if I’m no longer contagious and can still host the barbecue, I decide to pull myself together and quit drinking. I need a clear head if I’m going to face Miranda—if she hasn’t quit already—and everyone who depends on me for their paycheck.
It’s hardly past sunrise when I’m pulled from my fitful sleep by the incessant knocking and ringing of my doorbell. “Hold your horses, I’m coming!” I whip the door open mid-knock and immediately regret my choice not to pull on a T-shirt before leaving my bedroom when I find an angel on my doorstep.