Fantasies

Look up "best friend" in the dictionary; it'll have a picture of Katie there. Promise. When I left my now ex-husband three years ago...Katie gave me a place to stay. When I got discouraged with the job market available to ex-housewives in this high tech world...Katie kept my spirits up, and told me not to sell myself short. After seeing a sketch pad from an art class in what felt like a previous life, she got me an interview at her advertising firm. She even loaned me the gorgeous suit that boosted my self-confidence enough to get me through the interview. Since then, she's been the source of inspiration, mentoring, encouragement, laughs, and many many margarita refills. She's my best friend, I owe her more than I want to remember, and I would do anything for her. So one might ask why I was in her office that afternoon, stubbornly refusing to do her this one tiny little favour.

"Melissa....please."

"No." My calmest, clearest, 'here endeth the negotiations' denial.

"Melissa...I need your help on this."

Did she not hear the 'here endeth' tone in my voice? "Katie, I can't."

"Mel...I'm not asking much here."

"It's not that I won't, Kate...I can't" I plead. She's not actually going to ask this of me. She loves me. She'll understand...there are things that a person just can't do.

I watch Katie sigh, run both hands back through her hair in exasperation, and close her eyes as she quietly asks, "is he really that bad?"

"No. No he's not. He, in fact, has a smile like a young Harrison Ford, an ass like Brad Pit's, and big brown eyes that make half the women in this building quiver. None of which matters, because I can't do it."

Kate starts covering old ground, in a reasonable, quiet, 'don't scare the animals' tone of voice: "He's the best copywriter we've got. The clients already love your designs. This is an important account. He's easy on the eye. I've never heard a complaint about his sense of humour. He even smells nice. What's the problem?"

"You know the problem," I all but whisper, dropping onto the couch across the room from her desk. "He's my...my...my go-to guy."

"You can't work with Jason....because...."

I give up all pretence of discretion. After all, it's not like she doesn't know already. "Because, since I started working here, he's the fantasy I go to when nothing else is working for me. And you know that. Good grief, Katie...I blush scarlet when I get into an elevator with this guy. There is no way, none, that I can work with him."

My first day at Karn and Stemper, I'd seen him as I was walking into the elevator, boxes in my arms. He'd smiled at me, and my heart started beating a mile a minute. At home that night, trying to come down from the excitement of a new job, I'd had one of those times when you just can't seem to get the rhythm right. My vibrator felt great, but there was no orgasm in sight. No matter what I did. Until I remembered that smile, then boom. And to tell the truth, my night-time fantasies had gone to my "go-to" guy a lot more than even Katie knew. There had even been a couple of day time "go-to"s with the door to my office locked and my legs up on my desk. There hadn't been a problem with it, I mean...when you meet someone who can make your head spin like that, why not just enjoy the ride? But why oh why couldn't it have been someone I knew in college and would never see again?

"Melissa. You tell me, how do I explain to the largest travel agency in town that they can't have our best writer because the graphic designer once got off thinking about him in a hot tub? It's 6 weeks, Hon. You can come by my place every night to complain about the assignment if that's what it takes, but please just do this? For me?"

At this point I know I've lost, but I can't help it. "It's not just the hot tub...it's the shower, the living room, my room, his room..."

"You've never even seen his room, Mel!" Katie interrupts.

"I've got a good imagination," I mutter.

"Your imagination gets more action than any three real women I know, Mel....but you can't let it run your life. Rein it in here, Hon. Work with the guy."

So much for grim determination....I agree to take what I think must be the most impossible assignment of my life.

"Good." Katie breathed deeply. "If you want, come over tonight and we'll raid my wardrobe. See if there's something we can do to make you feel better about tomorrow."

*******************************************

"Do you want me to turn the air on?" Jason Innis asks...for the second time today.

"No really, I'm fine." I'm wearing one of Katie's summer dresses, white cotton with little blue and yellow flowers. Casual seemed like such a good idea yesterday, calm cool and relaxing. Not, as Katie insisted, because the colours would accent my blue eyes and blonde hair. As it turns out today, I'd rather be wearing inch thick wool or chain mail. Woops! This blasted dress doesn't make it as far down as my knees and has straps instead of sleeves. So no, I'm not hot, I'm just flushed...I'm remembering how the Jason in my mind spooned up behind me last night to nibble my ear while reaching both arms around to rub his palms across my nipples. All air conditioning is going to do is make that worse. The last thing I need is to have those self same nipples pressing against my...

"So, you were saying...."

Add blush onto flush...mental note, ensure all makeup from here on out works well with red cheeks. "Oh, yes...I was saying that I liked the idea for a series, but that I thought Anders just wanted the one magazine spread." My mind heads off on a safari through all the possible bits of my anatomy I want spread right now.

"Well, that's what they asked for. And we can still do that. But when they said: 'young couple in a beautiful location,' well, I just couldn't make up my mind last night. I mean, it's all well and good to say they want to bring back the romantic vacation for the DINK/Singleton market...but we're just going to show one setting. And that can't encompass everyone's definitions of a romantic break. One person might get hooked by an image of Paris while another won't stop on the page unless it's a beach. right? So here's my thought." Jason opens his briefcase and starts distributing sketches across the meeting table.

With just the two of us there, there is no reason not to use all the space. Honest, usually I'd be looking at the pictures...but the way his back and shoulders move under his shirt as he stretches across to scatter the pictures has me mesmerized. I mentally insert myself between his body and the edge of the table...my mind constructs its own version of how his hips would feel pressing against mine, the edge of the table sharp against the back of my thighs, my spine slowly rolling onto the cool wood surface as my legs come up to wrap around him. I get particularly stuck on the feel of his stiffening (of course) cock against the inside of my thigh, cradled in the V between my leg and my body....when I hear the by then inevitable...

"Are you sure you don't want the air on?"

I swear I can hear a smile in his voice, but there was none on his face when my eyes shoot up to it.

"No really, I'm fine." I squeak...and bend over to look at the pictures.

"These aren't bad" I heard myself say....and I mean it, they aren't. Not professional level art, but not the cringe-worthy things you get from most of the writing staff...those members of it who think they've got the "hard" part of the job, anyway.

"My mother was an art teacher" I hear him say, right over my shoulder. I pinch my leg, hard, to get the image of Jason flipping my skirt up and pressing his thigh between my legs out of my mind. "They're not anything like what we'll use, I know...but they get the point across. I want to pitch a broader campaign to the meeting this afternoon. Instead of just a single ad showing a young couple on a trip, we have them meeting somewhere exciting. It appeals to the singles, and, if the first one's successful...we can follow them on all sorts of trips as their relationship progresses. That should get the young couples as well."

Something about that man's voice: deep yet light, dancing yet rich. It makes my spine tingle, my head spin, and my vocabulary untrustworthy. "Like the coffee thing," is my brilliant contribution to the conversation.

"Yeah, the couple on the Folgers ads, exactly!"

"So where do we start?" I ask, taking my eyes off the pictures and turning around...thinking: We could start with the table, the wall, the chair, the floor...or I could just wrap my legs around your waist and hang on for dear life....

"Start?" Jason's already turned around and is heading for the air conditioner...

"This couple...whatever we wind up naming them. Where do they meet?"

"The first one we do might also be the last one, so let's make sure the setting will stand on its own. Jamaica? We'll make it clear it's a first meeting to leave open the possibility for an extended series."

Which is the moment the words "extended series" filtered through my erotic haze...an extended series of ads...and I didn't know if I should laugh or cry. In either case, I should definitely buy stock in Duracell.

*******************************************

I bite down hard on the washcloth to muffle a moan, and speed up the fingers stroking along either side of my clit. My skirt is hiked up around my waist, my shirt is pulled up above my breasts, and I have one bra cup pulled down to expose a nipple. Not two minutes ago I'd been playing with it, stroking my fingers across it...but since I'd decided against bringing any toys to work...there'd been other things I needed my fingers for. I'd become desperate for penetration, and have my first and middle fingers tucked neatly up my snatch, beckoning gently with them to stroke the front wall of my dripping cunt. I can feel one nipple pressing against the lace of my bra, reminding me that the other breast was on display to anyone who came through the door. Which does it, my mind offers me an image of Jason walking in to find me displayed like a pornographic buffet...twat open, tits out, head back. In my mind his eyes paint a path down my body to where my hands are busy. He sinks to his knees in front of me, his hands stroke up my thighs, catch my arms at the elbows and use them to pull my hands out of his way. He lowers his mouth to my clit, and slides his own fingers slowly into my dripping cunt. I run my fingers through his gorgeous black hair, feeling his head move as he worked me to a fever pitch. Too much, I'm ready to go over the edge. In the real world I fuck myself faster with one hand, while the fingers of the other hand start the final spiral around my slit to end rubbing circles on my clit until the stars stop popping behind my eyes.

I catch my breath slowly, reassemble my outfit, and pull a fresh pair of panties out of my purse. I brush my hair back into its twist, and carefully collect my washcloth. I have made quite a study of the 5 minute quickie at work over the last week. I now know a dozen different routes to the 4th floor wheelchair-friendly restroom, lots of legroom and two solid doors between me and the outside world. Everyone in my group thinks I've taken up smoking. In a way, I guess I have. The washcloth had been yesterday's addition to my "at work pleasure kit." Worry about my moans attracting attention had gotten to be too much for me the first day I'd tried this. Spending the rest of the day all worked up after a lack of orgasm was, it turned out, much harder to work through than just my usual absent mindedness. Especially since that was the day Jason started resting his hand on my shoulder as he looked past me at the draft board. I was crossing my legs just to get some pressure on my aching clit. I finally pled a headache and went home early, where I promptly used every toy in my arsenal to get out the screaming orgasm that'd been stuck in my throat. Not again. Now I'm making sure to have something I can bite down on when I take my trips to the 4th floor. With a quick stop at the mirror to renew my make up and make sure that the buttons on my blouse are done up (that was Tuesday's mistake), I decide I'm ready to face that three o'clock meeting.

*******************************************

I used to think I had a thing for blue eyes. Really I did. All through school I chased blue-eyed guys, my ex had beautiful ones. How on earth could I have been so terribly wrong all those years. You can keep the piercing blue-eyes....I'm happy getting lost in Jason's warm brown ones as they move around the room. I want nothing more at that instant than to hold his gaze, see those eyes widen just a little as he pushes his cock slowly into me, see them close in pleasure only make them pop open again in surprise as I squeeze him inside me.

"Well, Melissa can answer that best," I hear Katie say. Oh hell. I turn my attention up the table with a big smile and slightly befuddled look, and wait for my best friend to bail me out again. "How sure are you that we can get the same models for the entire run of ads, Melissa?"

"Not a problem, they're not life drawings. Just things I did from figure studies. Products of my fevered imagination." No, I didn't just say that. Oh hell, Katie's eyes are laughing...I did say it. My gaze flicks across to Jason without my willing it, he's smiling. What on earth does that mean? I see no reason to let him off the hook, "Our imaginations I should say. 'Casting' for the characters, setting them, all of it. Because we want the narrative to drive the project, all the artistic decisions were joint ones."

"Well, that's a shame...if the campaign moved into TV we'd have liked to have the same people. Still, we're not going to look a gift horse in the mouth." After that, I'm not sure what the suit from Anders Travel is saying. My eye obsession has suddenly become unimportant, the whole world had resolved down to mouths. Well, one mouth in particular. Soft lips exploring my mouth, against my throat, sucking on a nipple, tugging aside my panties....all at the same time. And at no point do I have to lose sight of that intoxicating half smile. I've uncrossed my legs, spread them just a little to help that imaginary mouth gain access to one of the many places I want it before I realize that the conversation has swung back to me. I thank heavens for big oak tables, as I hastily re-cross my ankles and look up.

Everyone's looking at me, so I smile and nod, and it seems to satisfy everyone. The time has obviously come for the handshakes and mutual congratulations part of the program. Everyone's happy, my job is safe. And best of all, I'm up for four weeks free of overwhelming sexual frustration before it's time for "Kim and Brian," our well travelled lovers, to start planning their many Spring Breaks.

Fifteen minutes later I'm lying on the couch in Katie's office, my mind stuck on the feel of Jason's hand on the small of my back as we left the meeting room. The only thing that saves me sometimes is that guys never know just how my heart melts when they touch me there. Somewhere in the back of my mind, that hand is tugging my shirt loose and sliding up to undo my bra strap...the rest of me is hearing Katie come through the door after she finishes playing catch up with her secretary.

"You amaze me, Melissa."

"Hmmm?" I offer back, wondering whether that phantom hand would continue stroking up my spine to push my bra straps off my shoulders, if it would travel down to lift my skirt and cup my ass, or if it would slide forward around my rib cage to pop my breast loose.

"I just didn't think you'd go for it."

Ah, there, panic is apparently enough to turn off the fantasy factory in my mind. I stare at Katie, lower lip tightly gripped between my teeth. She sits slowly behind her desk and sighs, "You didn't know what you were nodding at." And then there's nothing but laughter for a couple of minutes.

A long couple of minutes. What the hell have I agreed to? "We've got a month's material ready for the Anders campaign, Katie. They want more, and that's great. They're going to get back to us with the locations they want us to focus on. I know I said I wasn't going to do more than first 6 weeks, but I'll manage." I blush just a little before jokingly adding, "I've learned all about rechargeable batteries."

She's still laughing. Oh god, she's still laughing. And I don't think it's at my weak attempt at humour. "Anders," she gets out between giggles, "loves the campaign. It's a big hit. They've gotten calls from specific business clients, hotels...resorts...ship lines, who want to be in on the deal. Anders is sending you to do on site art work, you seemed to think it was a great idea."

That sounds familiar, there was something about "would you be free to travel" before we left the room. And then I hear it, a deep, mellow, spine tingling voice that comes from memory rather than fantasy just this once, saying "I'm sure I can find time in my schedule. How about you, Melissa?" And then I mouth the words that had earlier damned me:"our imaginations, joint artistic decisions" as I curl up on the couch and bury my moan in a throw pillow.

"Oh Mel," I hear Katie say as she moves out from behind her desk and kneels beside the couch. "Look, this is for the best, really. When Anders comes back with the itinerary, you and I are going shopping. We're going to get you a wardrobe that's going to seduce that boy for you, whether you like it or not. And then you're going to get him into your bed and out of your system."

I shake my head violently against that pillow, not ready to look up and face the world yet. It's not going to happen. Katie's always looked at the world through a very simple lens, but she fails to take some key things into account. Most importantly, I turn into a blithering idiot any time I'm within 30 feet of that man. I can see this trip already stretching out before me as a list of endless opportunities for me to make a fool of myself.

*******************************************

I always thought I'd love those flowy wrap-around skirts. They look good in store windows and on television shows. That was until I had to wrestle one in a stiff breeze. This sarongish looking contraption had been wrapped around my head twice already today, both times attracting giggles from bystanders and amused offers of help from Jason. His hand on my side, steadying me as I got my clothing under control, had been electric and not just a little distracting. The only solution I'd found was to plunk my ass down on the beach with the filmy thing wrapped tightly around my legs and tucked safely under my behind as a cushion. I feel a bit like a beached mermaid, but at least I wasn't flashing anyone. And it is a beautiful place to sit and sketch.

Unfortunately, it's the fourth beautiful beach this week, and I have run out of ways to make them look special and different. I'd given up on this location almost as soon as we'd gotten here, the Hawaiian ads are going to have to be all about the lava beds we're visiting this afternoon. But for now, despite the wind, the sun on my back feels like a gentle massage...and I'm happy to stay where I am, imagining away. My hands idly sketch random images as my mind travels along much more defined pathways.

Phantom hands stroke across my back, warm palms rubbing outward from my spine then down along my sides. They stop at my waist for a moment before pressing down across my hips. I stretch my shoulders as the hands retrace their path upward, sliding under my shirt, making me shiver where they "contact" skin, pulling my top up as they travel. My sketching slows as those imaginary hands move along my ribs and across my stomach.... I can nearly feel Jason's chin on my shoulder, his chest against my back. I'm so deep in the daydream that I even smell his cologne. Those wandering hands move up to cup my breasts, I feel my heart speeding up and my breath catch slightly, my arms cross my body just beneath my tits, pressing them together slightly, gently shadowing my imaginary sensations. I want his fingers to flick up and across my nipples, brushing them, stroking them, maybe pinching them a little, making them rock hard and extra sensitive...and sure enough that's what they become. The hands in my mind move up, squeezing, becoming gently greedy, pulling me back against the body behind me. That's when I overbalance, reacting to a pressure that doesn't exist, and have to reach back and catch myself before I fall. My eyes pop open and see Jason kneeling in front of me, waving a hand slowly across my sight line. Apparently, I really did smell his cologne.