“How do you do that?” she asks him in disbelief, still breathless as she stretches her neck slightly to look over her shoulder at him. “How can you make me feel like that?”
“You inspire me,” he replies softly, smiling up at her though she can’t see him properly where he is between her thighs.
His hot mouth on her pussy again, though she’s only just come that way already, her back arching, her behind pushed high to allow access. The look on her face one of surprise, an expression making her seem somehow vulnerable, those wide open eyes, that trembling bottom lip, perhaps because she’s opening up for once, letting her guard down with this man, the first time she’s done so for so long she can’t remember.
“Oh God,” she whispers, no longer self-conscious like she was when she first stood in front of him what could have been a couple hours ago or more, when she dropped her panties to her ankles, shaking like she was hooked up to the mains, she was so nervous.
Now she cannot speak at all, it’s just breathing and even that is difficult with the pulsating energy surging through her veins from his velvet touch, the heat of his face pressed so tight against her most receptive areas. The shock of another person in such intimate contact with her most private region has dissipated but it was never completely vanquished, especially in so unusual a position as this.
The air is heady with the thick scent of her ripe sex, but with his tongue so tantalising on her clit, she no longer has any fears over whether he likes it. The kind of noises he is making down there are enough to calm her in that respect, the affectionate coaxing as he holds her behind with those strong hands reveal his comfort at being there, strange as it may seem to her. Men never used to be this way, did they?
The sound of his soft arms sliding over her thighs like the sound of silk sheets being shaken out in the gentle summer breeze. She moves a little, changing position slightly, her body twisting, her hips swivelling though careful to avoid closing herself off to him. Lying on her side now, or at least below the waist, her upper half remaining so her breasts hang under her, her elbows pressing into the mattress.
It’s such a lewd act, for a girl who has taken such pains to maintain real dignity in public since university. So dirty. His tongue teasing out the most incredible sensations from her pussy, his lips grazing her labia, his smouldering mouth so hot, so perfect. She grips the pillow as her second orgasm of the night approaches, her knuckles white in the warm, dim light of the bedside lamp.
She moans quietly, again and again, but sounding somehow unsure, like she’s forgotten how to moan like that, unused to having to moan like that. Her face twisted by bliss and confusion – affected by the unbelievable power of his touch, but also by the questions racing through her mind – how could anyone make her feel this way? How can someone, virtually a stranger, make her feel ten times better than she’s ever even made herself feel? It seems impossible, absurd. But it’s happening.
Has he been with many women? Is she now just one in a long line, one he may not even remember this time next year?
Oh, but what does it matter? He’s eating her pussy, something she’s only ever read about before, an almost mythical experience that’s come explosively true. Is he just doing it to win her? Is it going to stop if she gets involved with him? Worse, is he only with her because she is a good contact, someone who has tipped him off occasionally over the past weeks and now with a new position in the civil service has some extremely interesting information at hand?
Oh, but right now thoughts like those don’t matter, she is overwhelmed by the awesome force rippling through her vagina, her clitoris.
Now something new, a finger at the entrance to her pussy, then slipping smoothly inside her, squeezing between her labia, gliding so easily inside, she’s so wet. Penetrating her, the first penetration since she doesn’t know when, such an unusual sensation on the scale of things but so blissfully welcome as his wonderful mouth focuses on her clit, driving her ever onwards to the roof of the sensual world.
Right now she’d tell him whatever he wanted to know, however deep a secret it was for the government. She’d promise her soul to him in return for more of this, the first total satisfaction for so long.
*
Everything’s so normal in the office. She’s working hard, as usual, maintaining her calm. Her shoulder-length mousey hair is brushed tidily but not in any manner that might attract the opposite sex. Just like normal. Her trouser suit is smart but not in a way that might draw attention to her. She’s pretty, but she hides it behind a pair of glasses and a fringe, not to mention a borderline miserable expression. Just like she does every other day, too. It’s not exactly a thrill a minute working for the government.
She’s pretty, but she makes herself so invisible, no one in the Department even notices. She’s desexualised, like a spinster librarian. She’s a faceless civil servant among all the other faceless civil servants here, and it’s just like nothing ever changed.
“Sarah, you have those figures?”
“Uh… yeah. Hang on.”
But though it’s like nothing ever changed on the surface, underneath the frumpy outfit everything has changed for Sarah Jones. Under those librarian’s clothes, hidden from the surface normality, her pussy still tingles with memories of his touch. Everything has changed.
“That bloody journalist’s asking questions again. Barry’s seriously pissed off.”
“Here,” she says, handing an innocent sheet of paper to Piers, a sheet containing all the bad news the Department was hoping to keep to itself. Poor naïve Piers, who is being slowly but surely brought under the tainted influence of Party Politics.
“God knows how he found out,” Piers who hasn’t quite grasped the need to keep certain things to himself even among people supposedly on the same side. “Barry said if there’s a leak in the Department there’ll be hell to pay.”
“Barry’s paranoid,” she said, acting cool, dispassionate, like nothing’s changed. Low profile.
“That’s Barry’s job!” Gullible Piers, who doesn’t get that civil servants aren’t here to cover up the Labour Party’s mistakes to make the Party look good in government. Scampering off to deliver the statistics to his political master to massage before passing over to the Press.
Only she’s already given the unmassaged figures to the Press.
Her heart beating powerfully inside her as the adrenaline burns inside her veins. She’s never leaked anything before. He said he’d go to the Press Office, ask them officially for the figures to make them think there was no leak. She’d asked him if she could trust him – even after that incredible night in which he’d made her come so many times she hadn’t even counted. He’d said of course she could trust him. He’d said he wanted to see her again as he’d stroked her cheek, kissed gently under her ear. He’d said he’d call the Press Office, ask for the Department’s official figures. Calling the Press Office was proof she could trust him if she still needed it.
So there it is. He’s clearly phoned the Press Office now to put her in the clear.
But still, she’s nervous. Her heart thumping like it had ten minutes before every single piano lesson she’d had until she had been given the blessed permission to give it up at the age of ten. It’s not like she’s betrayed the nation. She may have signed the Official Secrets Act, but on the scale of things, the Press isn’t like a foreign power. In the light of the complete failure of Her Majesty’s Official Opposition to stand up to the Government in the House of Commons, the media has become the only faction to hold the Government to account. She’s only letting the British people know what’s going on.
But is that what she’s nervous about? Really?
She can’t concentrate. The text on the screen of her ludicrously old computer is swimming about, dancing away from her focus. The truth is, she’s more nervous about whether she’ll hear from him again. Though they’ve met a few times, it was only the one night. Maybe he has sex with a lot of women only once. Takes what he needs, no big deal. But it was a big deal for her – a major event. She’s opened herself up for the first time in years.
She shouldn’t feel like this, it’s only been one night. She shouldn’t be trembling all over, craving him like this, like some desperate addict gone Cold Turkey. How could she be addicted to something after such a brief exposure? But she is, she cannot deny it. She’s sitting there holding a pencil, tapping it so rapidly against the desk someone might think she had some kind of condition. For some reason, she feels slightly drunk, as though she had so much booze last night, it’s still affecting her. But she’s stone cold sober.
It was only one night, but hope is a powerful emotion: right now, her life could have finally turned flipside, her future could now be one of sheer ecstasy, every waking day so bright and thrilling. Or, it could all have been a dream and her future will be the same lifeless nine to five grind, every waking day a tireless slog from flat to Tube station to Westminster before getting back to the lonely flat again at the end.
She’s in limbo – it could all be so great now, or it could all be so terrible. She’s tasted happiness, and she can’t face another sip of anything else. The uncertainty is agony.
She’s been like this all day, though she’s quite impressed that she’s shown no sign of it whatsoever on the surface. No one in the entire Department has guessed – no one could. She was history if she did, moral high ground or not. No one in the Unit has guessed, either, which is good – those who’ve been working most closely with her. They can’t guess she’s a leak. Not if she keeps like this. She’s been working here for ages – ever since leaving college and completing the Fast Track training. The recent promotion doesn’t matter – she’s like furniture now at the Department.
How long does she have to wait? How long are you supposed to wait for a man to call? Can you call a man? Might it make you seem desperate? Might he think you’re scary, stalking him or something? Jagged Edge. She should calm down. Chill. It’s only been a matter of hours since he kissed her goodbye.
But what if he doesn’t want her? Surely it would be better to know early on. She’d lose that wonderful sense of possibility, but at least she wouldn’t be kidding herself.
He’s a great reporter. She’s read his stuff, he knows what he’s talking about, bar the odd speculative misdirection. He’s no doubt got plenty of contacts other than her, plenty more giving him way more useful information on a regular basis. Now she’s played her only good cards. She may not get anything she can offer him for a while. Has he any use for her now?
A tear slips down her cheek, and she quickly mops it up with her sleeve, dabbing rather than rubbing so as not to make her eye red. God, she’s got to control herself. Piers might be a moron and Barry a self-obsessed prick, but anything out of the ordinary at a time when the word ‘leak’ was being banded about might alert them to her.
The phone rings, the sudden shrill noise almost violent in the way it shakes her out of her introspection. It sets off her heart fluttering again. The telephone. Could be him. Could be the Party Machine. Could be heaven in human form, could be trouble in human form. The divine Jack or the repulsive Barry.
Her hand on the receiver, pausing, shivering. Heart in her mouth.
Deep breath.
“Sarah Jones.”
