"truc" and Camille

Camille growls at me like a wildcat. She claws the air with glossy black fingernails.

"What are you, some kind of Neanderthal?" Her famous French purr has risen to a screech that could shatter glass. Maybe even the half-ton of glass cabinet I just spent the night installing in the wrong place.

She shakes her razor sharp, silky black bob like it's full of wasps. "How much we pay you, Truck?"

Not enough for this shit. "No problem. Just show me where you want it."

"But I tell you already!" She swings her arm around her private office, the control room of her own multi-million-pound fashion empire—all riverside views and polished concrete and raw oak. "Anywhere!"

"Just not here."

"Just... not where I look at it all day."

"I thought the shelves were for your awards. You don't want to see them?"

The petite powerhouse lunges. Never has a minidress looked so scary. I actually cover my bollocks. She thrusts a snarl at my face even though I'm two feet taller than her. "Yes! Argue with me motherfucker! Give me a reason to sack your ass!"

Yes, the woman is a nightmare, but it's a nightmare that covers my mortgage, not even counting the work I get because I work for her. Suck it up fella. "Right. How about behind your desk, like, against the window?"

"Will I see my awards, there?" She's on tip-toes, pushing her face into mine like a demonic, dainty drill instructor. "So they can bully me with my reputation? Pile their shitty pressure on my head? Remind me of the hundreds of people depending on me?"

"Umm. No?"

"Non! Of course not! Neanderthal! Too bad you don't work out your brain like your pecs, eh?"

I fake a laugh. Salute. "Whatever you need."

A thanks would be nice. Instead, Camille jabs her nose at my chest and arms, sniffing. "You smell of me. Why?"

I skulk over to my tools. My ears blaze. I secretly used her private shower earlier.

"You used my shower!"

"Course not, love, I—"

"Don't 'love' me." At least her voice has dropped from dentist-drill to husky again, albeit the biting kind. She wedges hands to the small of her back and loses herself in a row of gold fabric samples on her desk. "You know the soap in there, it is too expensive for someone like you."

I take a deep breath, hold it, start dismantling shelves.

A unique, knockety-knock on the door is her Aussie PA, Justine. "Camille, can I—Hey Truck, you're still here!"

I give her a wink. Justine is a coppertop bundle of irrepressible joy. All Camille's employees are models, just like Camille when she started, but unlike her boss, Justine's a laugh. It was her that started calling me "Truck" instead of "Laurie." The cheekster flushes and tucks a red curl behind her ear.

"Don't look at him, he's shit." Camille steps between us. "What you want?"

I focus on my work, watching in the shelving unit's reflection as Justine presents her boss with some papers. Camille flips and signs and flips and signs, muttering in French. When she's done, she clicks her fingers in front of Justine's face, who seems fascinated by my demoralising labour. The PA jumps as if woken up.

"Cool! Later, Trucky!" She bum-bumps me as she sashays by.

I'm undoing number ten of like two hundred little brass screws, but distracted by Camille's reflection. She sits on her desk facing me, watching me work, twirling a strand of hair. My client looks lost and tiny silhouetted by the city and the Thames flowing past her monumental windows.

I still feel trapped with a tiger, though. She crosses her legs, flicks a foot. I try not to fumble under her vicious stare.

I've known Camille since she left college and first got famous, like ten years ago, and seeing her so stressed—even though she takes it out on me—knots my gut. Her film director hubby got caught by the paparazzi fucking a starlet last week, but Camille's been fraught for weeks. And because she's all about fashion, she makes it pretty clear when you need to keep out of her way. Her dresses get sharper, stiffer, cover more of her, until some morning she'll turn up in nothing short of a gestapo uniform.

I'm a handyman who works in fashion, I notice this shit.

Today, for example. she's wearing her best-selling Trekkie dress—an ochre velour, A-line thing with thick black bands at the neck, sleeves and hem. OK it's short enough to show off her (neat and lovely) knees, so it's hardly a uniform, but with its figure-hiding, geometric shape, its high collar and long sleeves, it's definitely not an invitation either. First time I saw it, I said I loved it, but it made me think of Captain Kirk. Camille laughed her tits off at that, then named it the Trekkie dress. Sometimes she accidentally calls it "Trucky's dress."

She's worn it a lot recently—like three times this week, dunno why—but now with opaque black tights, and little black boots. That's how it starts, the uniform. Bits of black pop up, then spread like a mould of anger.

Her reflection folds its arms. "How long will you be?"

I turn to her. Scratch my head. "Rest of the— "

"Where'd you get that shitty T-shirt, Truck? Primark?"

I shrug.

She kicks off a boot, and levers at the other. I tense. She's a marksman with her footwear. She got me on the back of the head from across the office, once. "It is offensively blah, you know this? I believe the way you dress, it is toxic to me."

Her massive, electric blue eyes crackle. "Take it off."

"Ah..." I draw her attention to her monolithic office door, still slid open to the rest of the office.

"All women, or gay. Believe me they will only thank me." She tosses her shoe away.

Fuck it then. I yank my toxic tee off. Chuck it onto her desk. Fold my arms.

Camille leans back. Her cheeks look slapped. She bites the inside of her lip and her feet curl around each other like wringing hands.

I spread my arms. "Levi's OK?" I snap the band of my boxers. "Calvins?"

Her eyes fill the room. She twitches. Shit, was that a tiny shake of the head?

I gulp, reach for my waistband.

"Knock-knock!" Julian marches in. "Yay, Truck!" He clocks my toplessness, and grimaces. "Oops. In trouble again?"

"What." Camille barely moves her eyes to greet him.

"I'm sorry, Boss. We need an answer on those samples? The guys say if we don't order the spider silk today they're gonna sell the lot to Versace"

"Ten minutes."

"Brill." He waggles his fingers at me and disappears on a puff of Le Male.

Camille mooches back behind the criminally expensive honesty of her concrete desk, with its two hundred-year-old, slab-of-oak worktop. She's like a cat returning to its cage.

She clicks her fingers at me. "You. Get to work."

I turn to my task.

"Not there, idiot. Here." She taps the samples. "I need the eye of the common man. Which of these would you like your girl's ass wrapped up in? Come sit. Sit." She pulls out her Eames chair. "This morning you are the boss."

So I take her ergonomic throne and peruse the five scraps of identical silk.

Camille hovers behind me. Her shadow, cast from a half-assed, cloudy sun, fidgets across the desktop. The skin of my back prickles. Then she suddenly steps so close her hip rests against my arm. I won't lie, I flinch. Her presence beside me is like a sprung coil. I wonder if she even knows which way she's gonna bounce. How'd you get in such a state, love?

I strain to spot the difference in the samples while Camille leans into me. "Touch them, then!"

I take each piece between finger and thumb. Fucksake. They feel identical. My fingers are too rough, they snag and scrape the delicate fabric. I feel dumb. This woman can even beat me up with silk scraps.

Meanwhile, Camille's heat soaks into my shoulder like a secret whispered from her skin to mine. So I let my body answer the call. I drop my arm to curl it around her leg. My fingers rest against her calf.

If she screams, so be it. I'd rather be walloped for misunderstanding a cry for help, than ignore one.

Camille moves even closer. Her velour draped, tights-wrapped bottom wedges in the dip between my naked shoulder and chest. She smells of her fancy soap and a dry, lemony perfume. The tights stretched over her calf are powdery soft and warm under my fingertips.

Camilla clears her throat. "So? Which would your lady friend like?"

"Don't take the piss. You know I don't have a girlfriend." Too fucking busy.

"Oui, obviously, you are MY Neanderthal. But imagine your fantasy girl. What would she like?"

I brush knuckles up and down her calf. She shivers, but stays put. I run my palm over her. "That one." I pick up a random scrap. I don't fucking care.

"Bon." She keeps staring at the silks, biting her bottom lip. I wander more boldly, up the back of her knee. She catches a breath. We don't look at each other. Like our differences don't count if we don't look. I stroke up the inside of her thigh and now we're not boss and worker. All that status bullshit drops away when our bodies do the talking. All we have to do is keep our gobs shut.

She's stood prim, legs together, so there comes a point where my caress reaches closed thighs.

With a quick dance of her ankles, she moves her feet apart.

I follow her inner thigh all the way up, wedge under her buttocks and cup the heat between her legs. I squeeze her secret, squishy core.

She whimpers. "I'm so lonely." Her voice is all breath, no noise in it at all, like I squeezed the confession out of her.

"I know, love." I trace the lumps in her gusset. Find the stiffer bump amongst the squidge. Stir. "You work so hard. And who looks after you, eh?"

She shivers again, harder, and grabs my shoulder to steady herself. Her hand is clammy. Then so's her gusset.

I rub firm circles. Her head droops and she pants lightly. "I told you... I hated... those." She nods at my jeans.

Without quitting my job between her legs, I unbutton my flies and yank and writhe both jeans and boxers down my thighs. My cock bounces out to play. Already hard, it nods itself tree-trunk rigid under Camille's hood-eyed scrutiny. She squeezes my shoulder and arm. Her gusset dampens. I quicken my fingers.

Her office door gapes. Outside, beyond her waiting area, beautiful people scamper this way and that, totally unaware a bollock-naked handyman's getting handy with their boss.

Camille runs a finger lightly up my shaft, then tests it, bucking in her cool fist. "Merde. So hard, non?"

"All you, love."

Her hips twitch, and she gasps. She bends down, presses soft lips to my taut bulb. I rumble a moan, then she purrs it back to me. I pick up my pace, work at her hidden clit. She nuzzles her flawless cheek against my veiny club and jerks in my arms, humping my quick hand, her hot breath rolling over my cock and balls. She comes so quietly it's like she's containing and underground explosion. It's almost heartbreaking, as if she's embarrassed by it.

Her spasms leave her so wobbly, I jump from her chair and lower her into it instead.

As her shaking calms, her knees shut and dress clutched between, she catches my gaze with quick flicks of her eye. I can't tell if she's ashamed or just distracted by my nakedness. My jeans and boxers are gathered around my ankles. My cock jumps like, "Me! Me! Me!"

She smirks. "Now that is how to wear those clothes." But as I snort at Camille's rare humour, a tear trickles down her cheek. She knuckles it away. "Sorry."

A squirm makes her grimace. She stands and reaches up her skirt. "It is just, you know, good men, they are scared of me. Only creepy assholes dare to touch me." She wriggles her pantyhose down her hips, over her knees, then rolls them to her ankles. She clocks my frown. "I don't mean you, Idiot. I'm saying thank you. You give me hope. Perhaps not all good men are weak."

Not quite what I was shooting for, but I snaffle up the crumb of thanks anyway.

She clicks at a drawer. "In there I have more tights. You ruined these."

I lean down to her desk drawer to fetch her a packet of pantyhose, then make to pass it to her but find her eyes locked to my erection like a cat at a titbit.

"OK." I chuck the packet. "You're not done yet are you?"

Camille shrugs, fiddles with her hem.

Knockety-knock. Justine. I duck under the desk.

"Camille? Mr Yamamoto is here." If Justine saw me, she's pretending she didn't.

Calm as you like, Camille perches on the edge of her throne and rolls it to her desk. And to me. "Show him into the meeting room."

"Cool. Where'd Truck go?"

Truck's enjoying your boss's naked legs, thanks very much. They're kind of bambied— her pretty feet apart but thighs together. I grasp her knees and open her wide.

Camille hums, slouches back in her chair. "I think... he's looking for breakfast."

I stifle a bark of laughter. Her bald and plump lips poke a labial tongue at me.

Whatever you need, love.

Justine makes a sing-song-sigh. "Ah, bless 'im. He's earned it I reckon."

I pluck a kiss to Camille's clit hood, then dip my tongue into her and slip it along her glistening, salty-slick groove. She turns a gasp into a growl. I lick her juices over her clit and suck them off it. She growls again. "What're you waiting for? Oh, tell Julian sample 3."

"Cool. You OK?" Justine's voice quavers as if trying not to laugh. "You seem... feverish?"

"I'm fine. Go. Go. I'll... come soon."

Justine sniggers. "Take your time. I'll keep Yamamoto busy."

I decide that was meant for me. I open Camille's cunt lips, outer and inner, like the pages of a book. Her pink hole bubbles and a bead of juice rolls out and down her bum cleft. She joggles her hips impatiently. My mouth waters. I make us both wait.

The sliding door rumbles and clicks shut. Bless Justine.

Camille claws my buzzcut and splays her legs, gripping the edge of the desk with her toes. I take her entire cunt into my mouth. She croaks a long, satisfied sigh.

Time melts. And so does Camille. I lap at her, flicker my tongue, suckle her clit. She pants and swears and grinds and gets steadily floppier, giving over to me, until her legs are sagged over the padded arms of her fancy chair, and I've got her gripped under her buttocks so I can hold her up to my mouth. She alternates between straining to watch my tongue wriggle on her clit, or swearing at the ceiling.

I don't care who's waiting for her. As long as she's happy and dribbling down my chin and muttering, "T'arrête pas!" They'll have to call fucking security to prise me off her.

Then, after another blustered flurry of curses, she reaches between her knees and pulls my head off her. She peers into me as if into a jewellery box. Her eyes are soft, questioning. Surprised even. Then she smiles, a small curl of her lips, but for Camille that's a rapturous grin. She bends down and kisses my messy lips. It's a slow and tender kiss, but so unexpected it brings a lump to my throat.

She leans back and frowns, not at me, at herself I think. And she's still sat in my palms, and seems to know that even the weight of her is like a gift to me. She sinks toward my face again...

And I lift her off the chair, bring her cunt lips to my mouth instead. Not because I don't want her kiss. Because suddenly I want it too much.

My tongue returns to its playground and Camille sighs, "Oui..." She cups my head and stands astride me, bunching her skirt to watch. She rocks her hips as if pumping me full of her pleasure and I can't look at her, because when I do her eyes are blissed blue skies and gravity fucks up and I fall into her.

The nudge of her hips turns to little shoves. I guess she wants control and lie back. She crouches over my mouth, I open up and she settles into it like a tiny hot bath.

I lick and suck her marshmallowy clefts while she perches on me, hands on knees like some kind of fertility gargoyle. In under a minute's writhing she's shaking uncontrollably, her breath ragged. She's so squirmy on my face I can't target her clit, so curl out a flat tongue for her to slide on. She finds it, rubs, whimpers, then squeals, "Too cummy! Too cummy!" and smothers her cries with both hands.

This climax seems wrenched out. I take a grip on her bum again, support her, as she thrashes, almost sobbing with it. She squeaks and hops off my mouth as if my tongue has got red hot, and flops over the desk like a beached fish. She covers her slot. She can't even touch herself, hands hovering above her spasming mound. Each pulse draws a grunt from her.

I stand over her as she trembles out her climax, wiping my mouth on my arm. She sparkles at me, face flat to the desktop, peering over her shoulder. I'm lost in her dopey, heavy-lidded joy. There's my Camille.

I nestle the blunt brute of my cock at her glossy cunt lips. "You done?"

Camille snorts. With deft fingers, she opens herself up.

I grip her hips. "Whatever you need, love."

I probe her opening and rock slowly, introducing her super-lubed hole to my girth. She stretches wide and when I slide balls deep we groan so perfectly in unison we get the giggles. We can't fuck for a few moments, like a couple of stoned kids. I feel like I've licked the hard shell off her.

I drive my entire length in and out, relishing the roller coaster "Oh!" each plunge draws from her. She rests her forehead on the back of her arm, but soon her buttocks are slapping my front and she's arching off the desk, her jaw gaped, eyes shut tight.

Then it's like she hits a wall. She stops shoving back, and locks solid. I pump on, as if trying to catch a wave, and after a long wobbly moan she hisses, "F-f-f-FUCK!" Her hole flutters, sucking my thrusts.

I don't know why but I shout, "Ha!" and for a moment it sounds like I think I'm cowboy. But I'm just relieved because her pleasure unlocks me, and I badly need to release. I can lick her all day, but every squirm and husky moan of her climax threatens to set me off. And now she's come I can finally—

"T'arrête pas!"

I calm myself by regarding the shelves and the soul destroying job that still awaits me. And it works for a bit, but then I catch our reflection: A knobbly great giant ramming an elegant doll. The contrast is exciting—How did THAT get to fuck HER? —but then the same thought is also depressing.

I guess I must slow down because Camille pushes up to check me over her shoulder. She's crimson, her hair over her eyes. An abandoned smile spreads over her massive gob. "T'arrête pas!" she mouths.

Fuck this. Whatever you need, love. I'll have it tattooed on me. Have it carved on my fucking gravestone.

I unzip her dress and pull it over her head, spinning her to face me. I grab her hips, pick her up and while she reaches under her buttocks to spread herself, settle her on my cock again. I heft her up and down my pole. Her eyes are glittering slits, her breath only comes in moans. I kiss and nibble her breasts. She wraps her arms around my neck and kicks her heals at my ass and I feel like a runaway horse. Our skins slide together all along our front and our nipples play. She kisses my neck, I kiss hers. We kiss each other's jaws, then we find mouths and our tongues dance. My cheeks are wet—what the fuck? It's like she's sucking my heart right out of my mouth into hers. Her movements get jerky, uncoordinated. My arms and legs wobble. What I've dammed up behind my balls, swells.

I drop her on the desk and piledrive. Camille bucks at my thrusts, heels and fingers dug into my pumping buttocks, "Oui! Oui! Oui!"

My rising orgasm hauls me up onto my toes, arches me back like a sprung bow. I bite down, clench. Just one more shove. Just one more. Just—

"Show me! Show me!" Camille tries to wriggle off my cock.

I keep jamming into her. It takes all my strength to pull out, my body judders, unresponsive.

My cock goes off like a rocket.

Just out of her hole, I blast hot cum over Camille's clit. We cry out together. Someone outside cheers. Camille shoves needy hips at my jetting head. Grunting, spinning, I glaze her mound under her hungry gaze, and we grind cock to clit, clit to cock—the blood-warm, slimy join jolting us like the jammed ends of a live wire. A headrush arcs between us, doubled for being shared. We cling on to each other's hips, gasping, cackling.