Day One
George
“All in all, I think this has gone remarkably well,” Alastair said flatly, even though I could see his hands shaking.
If he didn’t take a seat, he’d probably spill that coffee he was trying to swallow all over himself.
Something Kirsten no doubt would roll her eyes at, and then she’d once again call him names and he’d exit the room in a haze of embarrassment.
Never work with your spouse. Ever. If I’d learnt any life lessons in this role? It would have to be just that.
“It’s all fabulously going to plan!” Kirsten declared with a smile.
It wasn’t a kind one. It was mechanical and cold, where her mouth would grin but her eyes were dead.
“Our matches are perfection, and we already have some great footage. I’ve asked for teasers for social media to be ready for tomorrow, so we can start to drum up page clicks.
Signups on the website have already begun.
We’re collecting some interesting data, and we haven’t even announced our resource matches. ”
“We shouldn’t use that word,” I stuck in, feeling that prickly irritation creep back in. “Resources. It dehumanises these people, and we have to…”
“Oh, don’t you start. I already had to have words with Gina. I don’t expect hostility towards our methods here. We are an experienced production, and this is exactly what we do.”
“I share some of her concerns,” Alastair voiced, only to get shut down by Kirsten. No words needed, just a stern stare.
“Insensitive and unethical? We are an entertainment show, and nobody gets invested in boring, sugary romance. What we are producing here is pure grit. The entrance with Chloe-Catherine and Ben was pure comic gold; you have to admit. Him screeching when her boobs popped out of her bra was…I mean. That is definitely going in the teaser. Diane crying and Wren screaming. I can see awards here.”
I could see delusion, but I wasn’t going to open my mouth just yet.
“Storm, how are we going with the script?” Kirsten spat out, making our lead scriptwriter jump. She was good. Just not that good, and it concerned me.
“We have to get more sentences in, where our contestants open up about their preferences, so we can soften the viewers’ perception of deception.”
“So we trick them into admitting things?” I had to say something.
“Not so much trick them, we make them open to suggestive responses. Then the cutting room can do the rest.” Storm had swallowed the concept; that was clear here.
“Peter has been a dream; he has given us some wonderful sentences to work with.” Kirsten swooned.
“Peter is problematic.” Here was our resident well-being coordinator.
“He is also in a very vulnerable position.” The relief of someone else speaking up against this madness made me release a drawn-out gasp.
“He is clearly still grieving his wife, and I have concerns about pushing him into a place where he’s… ”
“Oh, get over it. He’s a grown man and clearly besotted with Oliver,” Kirsten snapped.
“It’s been one day!” I shouted out, making everyone stare at me. “It’s been one day. Are we all living in cloud coo-coo land here or what?”
“I suggest you control your tone.” I was starting to dread this. All of this.
“It’s madness,” I said sternly, letting my hands fall onto the table.
“Then you know where the door is, George,” Kirsten said firmly, tapping her laptop.
Her nails were a mess. Where she would usually be perfectly manicured, they were worn down and uneven.
She was feeling the pressure here, and we all knew it.
Not that she was letting it show, once again getting her virtual fangs right into my neck.
“Everyone here has a job, George, a job that ten other people are ready to jump into by tomorrow. So don’t get too comfortable unless you are fully committed to this project.”
“Fully committed,” I lied.
“Ismail has handed in his resignation. George, as of today you’re the floor manager.”
You would have thought someone would have gasped. Questioned what was coming out of her mouth. But then she was Kirsten and we all knew the drill.
“Got it,” I responded. Like this was absolutely normal and very much fine.
And then I swallowed the bile in my throat. Because this? I wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
Perhaps if I had been a stronger person, someone with more experience?
A few more life skills under my belt and more than anything, a backbone or two?
Then maybe I wouldn’t feel so rattled. It wasn’t just the ever-present threat of dismissal from this job.
It was the constant undertone of not being good enough.
That I was just a stone’s throw away from slipping.
That whatever I produced would be waved off as insignificant and wrong.
My self-confidence had always been non-existent, and I still couldn’t believe they had actually offered me a job here in the first place. Now I was apparently doing two people’s jobs because nowhere in that sentence had my other commitments been redistributed to anyone else.
I could cope. I would. And anyway, who was I supposed to voice any concerns to? It wasn’t like we had a functioning HR department that would take notes of any grievances. I knew better than to even consider opening my mouth.
Get on with it. I had the accompanying email sat in my inbox, with my schedule having been extended further and my working hours far exceeding my sleeping ones.
I needed to sleep. Just a few hours so I could think more clearly.
Sleep. Which wouldn’t be happening because once again, his car was parked neatly outside my entrance, further disturbing all those butterflies in my stomach.
Yesterday he’d left me in the morning, with a lazy kiss on my forehead before he’d just disappeared.
I’d known how I would spiral so had kept my phone mostly out of sight.
I’d almost deleted Find My Friends in a terrorising frenzy of fear, but seeing another stupid meme pop up on our feed had made me pause for thought.
It hadn’t helped. I’d wanted this. Just like this evening, and from now on, every time I got home, whatever time it was, I wanted this. To see that car. Hear the click of his car door as I stood by the entrance, my hands shaking as I tried to get the key in the old rusty lock.
His arms gently folding around my waist. His front against my back. Hot breath on my neck as he cradled me and pressed his lips to my neck.
He was everything I wanted. Nothing that I needed.
The silence was comforting as we ascended the stairs. His hand still resting on my spine as he followed me through the door. Then I was spun around and pressed up against the wall, his grip on my arse lifting me up until I was practically trying to climb him.
His mouth was on mine. Constantly. My breathing far too loud and ragged as he just took from me what he wanted.
I let him. Because I wanted it. I wanted him.
And again, I lost all self-preservation in everything that this was.
His hands seemingly everywhere, trying to remove my clothing in jerky movements.
My blazer being tugged down my arms. My shirt button flying as he ripped at it.
My tie? Still loose around my neck as his mouth kissed around it.
Down my collarbone. My skin prickled as sweat covered my forehead.
Then he fell to his knees, completely rocking me out of the small zone of safety he’d built for me. Now I was flailing in the cool air, with nothing to hold on to, my face wet from his kisses and my shirt open, exposing far too much of my pale skin.
His fingers were fumbling with my belt, the swish of leather against fabric making the hairs at the back of my neck stand up.
His face was nuzzled in my groin, where I once again was giving all my secrets away.
I was rock-hard. There was no point in trying to deny that. Or to make him stop, because now my zip was open and he was fishing my length out of the elastic waistband of my briefs, making my balls stretch as his mouth took the tip.
Not far. Not the whole of it. Just the good mouthful he could fit in his mouth, his tongue working overtime as he slurped me up.
If I had been more with it, I would have laughed. Smiled at his clumsy attempts at giving me peace.
There was no peace here. I was fully at war with myself and my body and the need to obey all he was asking of me.
Because I was. He was wanting. I needed it.
And I would always give in, with no questions asked.
My mouth stuck in a weird sucking motion as the air filled my lungs, then released a heady moan that I had no control over as the tip of my dick hit the back of this throat.
He didn’t gag. I did. More cold air filling my lungs as he worked around me, his hands grabbing at my boxers, then ripping them down.
I would have sharp nail scratches all down my legs. On my buttocks, as he clawed at me, his mouth still working every inch of my cock. Half of it in his mouth. Then his tongue. A hand.
Then nothing as he looked up at me.
I looked down. Because I couldn’t take my eyes off him. And he was looking up at me as his tongue slipped out of his mouth. His hand opened up, like a flower in bloom.
I was ready. I could have ejaculated right there.
Covered that beautiful face in my seed like some messed-up erotic scene.
The lighting was right. The soft sheen from the hallway light just framing his face beautifully as he…
licked a wet line up his hand. And again.
Then he spat into the palm and grabbed the root of my cock, the surprise making me release a weird yelp.
The spasm that followed shot through me, making my glasses fall off my nose, my hands shaking as I pushed them back up.
“So fucking hot,” he whispered. The first words he’d said at all.
I silenced him with my cock, shoving it back where it belonged as his hand worked me up and down, meeting his lips on the turns.
It must have been mere seconds before my eyes fell closed. Where everything was light and everything was dark, where the stars shone brightly and all that mattered was him.
My release floored me, with no warning. Not even a second to pull him off before I came on his tongue. His mouth slurping at me enthusiastically.
Him on his knees. Me sliding against the old wallpaper behind me. Rough paper against prickled skin. His mouth moved along, licking up my hip. My stomach. Kissing his way up against my slide downwards.
My nipple in his mouth. His teeth nipping at the sensitive bud. Scraping. A bite on my collarbone. Softness of skin against sharp teeth.
The taste of me on his tongue as he sloppily kissed me. My tongue daring to join the games and taste the inside of his mouth. Sliding against his. The sensation sent shards of glass right through me.
Too much. Too much of him.
“Baby,” he whispered, as I finally stopped moving. Me. Just jelly. Boneless and hopelessly fuzzy. Like I’d drunk too many cheap beers. A cocktail of madness. Bleeding everywhere from too many wounds.
I vaguely acknowledged how he got me up and dragged me over to the bed. Released me from my trousers that had shackled my feet. Socks off. A drape of sheets around my weary bones.
“I’ll put your phone on charge,” he declared, fishing said phone out of my trouser pockets.
“Okay,” I slurred.
“You’ve got your alarm set for five thirty?”
A question? I had no idea.
Then he gently kissed my forehead.
I was asleep before he walked out the door.
He never even removed his shoes.