Page 24 of Hired Help

“Thank you,” she says, ducking under my arm, laughing. “Sorry to be so late but there was a queue at the café.”

She texted me the room number earlier and I’d collected the spare keycard from reception. We’ve met another three times since the first appointment and each session follows a similar pattern. Each time we meet, I enjoy her more.

I find myself thinking of her at odd times, wondering if she’d like a show I’m watching, a song I’m listening to. I get far too much pleasure from planning out new experiences for her, imagining the ways she might respond.

She hands the brown bag to me, setting the coffees on the lounge room table while I peer inside. “Oat cakes.”

“You said you liked them,” she says, a flicker of nerves crossing her features like a muscle spasm.

“I do. Thank you.” The gesture is oddly touching. This room is thousands a night and the bakery items are worth about ten, but it’s the latter I find special. The bag in my hand shows Brooke thinks about me, too. A flutter of pleasure beats in my chest.

Although I’m still appalled by the expense, this penthouse suite has become our regular haunt. I glance fondly around the room, thinking of the varied places and ways I’ve already played with Brooke, plotting new adventures.

She stands by the window, staring down at the surrounding streets while she sips her coffee. I walk behind her, sliding my arms around her waist. She’s tactile, always responding to my touch even when it’s not overtly sexual.

A familiar warmth seeps into my extremities, the pleasure of spending time with someone I like, someone I enjoy.

There’s no rhyme or reason to why. Brooke is aggressive, demanding, with an unexpected rigidness to her backbone. Her mind spins her from anger to sadness to rapturous peals of laughter without pausing. It’s a pleasure and a strain to keep abreast of the whirlwind changes.

Of course, I could be enamoured because of how she collapsed in my arms on our first meeting. Sobbing her heart out while she clung to me, her body wracked with pleasure from her first partnered orgasm.

The satisfaction of being good at my job is overshadowed by the thrill of giving her a gift no other man has been able to give her. It’s an indulgent thought to know that whatever else happens in her life, I will always own that prize.

“What are you thinking?” she asks now, wrinkling her nose as she glances over her shoulder.

The curve of her right breast presses against the window. If they weren’t tinted, those passers-by downstairs would be blessed with a wonderful sight. A random thought that soon sparks into an idea.

“Lift your arms,” I tell her, not explaining further.

Brooke reacts best when she has no idea what’s happening next. When each new surprise creeps onstage while she’s blissfully unaware.

She places her empty coffee cup on the floor, lifting her arms with instant obedience.

Sometimes she doesn’t. Sometimes she fights, chafing against my instructions, acting out until she needs to be put into her place.

But today she acquiesces as I pull her top over her head, trapping her arms in the fabric and twisting her around so they’re pinned behind her back. She isn’t wearing a bra and the slight chill from the glass hardens her nipples. They harden even more when I lean my weight against her, pushing them flat against the glass.

“Let them see a show,” I whisper in her ear, my voice already thickening with desire.

I keep hold of the twisted fabric with one hand and reach around, sliding against the glass until I’m cupping her right tit, rhythmically squeezing it, a beat that my leg picks up, my knee sliding up the back of her skirt, pressing her hips, her thighs against the glass, applying more pressure until she has to part them.

With one last squeeze, I let go of her breast, moving up to encircle her throat instead, tilting her head back away from the glass.

“Close your eyes,” I tell her in a gentle rumble.

I see the shivers where my voice hits into the right parts of her brain, setting it alight, and make a mental note to source some gruff ASMR porn. Someone whispering their dirty talk with their lips practically kissing the mic.

“There are so many people down there,” I whisper, leaning her body against the glass and altering the pressure so the full-length stimulation changes with every heartbeat. “Some are looking up at this very window. They’re staring with hands cupped over their brows to shield the sun. Staring at a girl so horny she’s writhing against the glass.”

She makes a low groan that vibrates through my fingers as they’re clamped around her throat.

“Would you like me to pinch your nipples? Show those folks what my dirty girl likes?”

“Yes,” she breathes as I finish my sentence. Not pausing. Not thinking. Just responding.

My cock hardens and I nudge it against her, stroking it against her lower back. She likes to see me aroused; likes to feel how much I want her.

When I close my eyes at night, hers is the body my imagination conjures for company. We’re only two weeks deep into this arrangement and already she’s taking over my every waking thought. Last night, I couldn’t shake them. After an hour, I finally had to stroke myself as I imagined sinking inside her, feeling the wet walls of her pussy grip hold as I treated myself, plunging until I was embedded so far into her, she’d forever feel the imprint of my phantom cock.

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