Chapter 4
Miranda
I knew it. I knew it. I knew it.
Ok, so I didn’t know that Mr. Fischer would be masturbating in his office, his dick long and hard and thick in his big hand, but I did know that something was off when he yelled yes at my knock on his office door. The way he said it—gruff with a desperate edge—had my toes curling in my sandals.
What a delicious sight it was to see him lose control, fling the papers to the side, and watch his face transform with pleasure when he reached his orgasm and moaned the word angel. He was moaning for me , Miranda. I’m his angel .
If he hadn’t bolted as soon as he was done, I would have dropped to my knees to lick up all his delicious cream. Ok, actually, I don’t know if it would have been delicious, considering I’ve never done anything like that before, but I at least wanted to find out.
I get nothing of importance done at work, with Grant treating me like a pariah whenever I get close to him. Fine by me. It gives me more time to plan for the weekend. My enthusiasm drains each day, however, when Mr. Fischer doesn’t show up for work, claiming to have the flu, but I’m determined to keep a positive outlook.
Friday night, I set about baking the perfect pies, in total making three to guarantee I can save the best one for Mr. Fischer since the party hasn’t been canceled. If I had moved back home instead of my little studio apartment after graduation, I’d likely have to explain my compulsive need for everything to be perfect to my mother, which she would balk at since Mr. Fischer is closer to her age than mine. Once Mr. Fischer gives in, explaining our relationship to my parents surely won’t be easy, but I don’t care. Nothing is going to sway my decision to make him mine or stop us from being together—including him.
I’m up an hour before sunrise on Saturday morning, debating whether to braid my hair as usual or leave it loose to fall down my back. Remembering that I had it in one long French braid the day I found Mr. Fischer masturbating in his office, I decide to go ahead and braid it, tying the end with a red ribbon. The thin white tank top patterned with mini cherries I bought with him in mind might be going overboard, but I wear it anyway, pairing it with the long white skirt I wore the first day I started at the firm.
The last step is to pack the pies carefully into a cooler, along with the homemade whipped cream, then make the fifteen-minute drive to Mr. Fischer’s house. I pull into his driveway a few minutes after sunrise, surveying the single-story brick home with a large front yard in a quiet, winding neighborhood. It’s the perfect place to raise our future family.
Climbing out of my tiny hatchback, I close my eyes and inhale the scent of summer. I daydream of our young children running around in their swimsuits, jumping through sprinklers, playing hopscotch, and throwing water balloons while our friends, family, and neighbors gather around. Carrying the mental image of Mr. Fischer throwing our future daughter up in the air, making her howl with laughter, I pick my way to his front door, dragging the heavy cooler behind me.
I can’t stop smiling as I knock and ring the doorbell until the door is flung open. My jaw drops, and I moan with longing when the real Mr. Fischer greets me, wearing nothing but blue plaid pajama pants, his light hair tousled from sleep.
My eyes trail down his torso, dropping at last to the thick rod swelling in his pants, the material so thin that I can trace every vein of his shaft. “Oh, wow, sir,” I say with a swoon, licking my bottom lip, my pulse sprinting with excitement when it jerks.
And then he slams the door in my face.