Indecent... Exposure Page 3

  He laughs harder then, louder, slapping his big hands down on his thighs.

  ‘It’s not funny! Seriously. I can’t have my normal clients knowing I take pictures like that. It will ruin everything!’ There’s more than a touch of hysteria in my voice, and I know it. I try to make myself sound reasonable and not unhinged. ‘And I didn’t take a single shot of them, which means they aren’t going to buy any photos, which means I don’t get paid.’ There. He’s an accountant. He’ll understand that.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. He’s holding in the laugh, but it shows in his shoulders, which refuse to be still. ‘If I’d known my dick would cause you all these problems, I’d have kept it in my pants.’

  ‘Actually,’ I point out, ‘the problem wasn’t your…it wasn’t you. It was Amber.’

  ‘Ah,’ he says. ‘She didn’t like the fact that looking at Amber gave him a hard on.’

  ‘Not quite.’ I hesitate then, but if I’ve learned anything today it’s that Tom Hunt is pretty open-minded when it comes to sex. And by pretty open-minded, I mean has absolutely no shame and quite possibly no limits. I wish I had no limits. ‘I think her exact words were “god, I’d like to suck on her tits”.’ My ears go all buzzy after I say those words out loud. ‘God.’ I cover my face with my hands. ‘I can’t believe I just said that.’

  There’s a moment of something then, something silent and hot and scary. He doesn’t look at me and I don’t look at him, but I’m so aware of him that it’s almost like he’s touching me all over. My skin is tight and I’ve never been more aware of my nipples. ‘Anyway,’ I say, stretching the word out as long as I can, ‘I’ve got to get home, and I’m sure you’ve got numbers to crunch. Calculators to dust. Stuff to do.’

  He’s still looking at me. I can feel it. ‘Yeah,’ he says, after what seems like forever. ‘Stuff. Why do you think it would ruin everything?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why do you think it would ruin everything if people knew?’

  ‘Because…because they’ll think it’s inappropriate. They won’t want me to take their normal photos. They’ll think I’m dirty and messed up.’

  ‘I see,’ he says. ‘Can I see the pictures?’

  ‘What pictures?’ I ask, like I don’t know. Like my brain hasn’t been hopping between Tom Hunt sat six inches away, all big and warm and fully clothed, and Tom Hunt in my camera, all naked and hard and coming.

  ‘Be serious.’ He gets to his feet, pokes one of the overhead lights with the tip of his finger. ‘You know exactly which pictures I mean.’

  ‘Why do you want to see them, anyway?’ I’m stalling and I know it. The idea of the two of us looking at those pictures is too intimate. Too weird. Too much. But I’m not outright refusing. I don’t seem to be able to.

  ‘Curious, I guess. So come on. Let’s see them.’

  ‘You know what they say about curiosity.’ I push myself up from the sofa. Still stalling. Still thinking about him naked and hard and coming. It’s all strange and wrong. He is all strange and wrong. Clearly I am too, because my mind has started to veer off in a whole new direction, one which involves me and Tom Hunt looking at those pictures and then having wild, banging sex on my velvet sofa.

  Tom Hunt would let me take pictures of him pleasuring himself. He’d do it without batting an eye. He’d probably like it.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, flashing me a grin. ‘If men weren’t curious, women would be bored. Show me the bloody pictures already.’

  Curiosity is crawling all over me now, making me hot and sweaty, like one of those viruses that comes on from nowhere and turns you into a wreck. Now I want to see the pictures, too. More than that, I really really want to be in the room with Tom Hunt when he looks at them. ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Have it your way.’

  I try to pretend that I’m not breathing a bit too fast as I turn on the screen and hook up my camera, then take the memory card out of my pocket and slot it in. I press a couple of buttons. The screen flicks from blue to black and white.

  ‘Do you want me to set it to slideshow?’ The words come out a little breathy, a little strange.

  ‘Sounds good,’ he says, so I scroll though the menu on the little screen on the back of the camera and set it up, then I take up position behind the sofa. Tom is still sat on the arm. We get ten seconds to look at each one before the next one appears. Ten long, luscious seconds. By the third picture, I’m throbbing. By the fifth, I’m wet and aching. I rub a hand over the back of my neck, though that’s not really where I want to rub.

  Tom is hunched over, rocking slightly forward every time the picture changes. His big shoulders are rigid with tension. The slideshow ends, and I can hardly breathe.

  ‘Got any more?’ he asks, his gaze fixed firmly on the screen. His chest heaves.

  ‘Of you and Amber? No. That’s it.’

  ‘No.’ He hesitates, then sort of coughs. ‘Of anyone.’

  I shouldn’t do this. I mustn’t. I should say things about client confidentiality, blah blah blah, and send him on his way. ‘Uh, yes,’ I fluster. I sort of stagger towards the door, where I left my bag, my legs wobbly. I pull out my laptop, and then collapse on the sofa with it. His face is flushed, in total contrast to his neat haircut, but I’m beginning to understand that some things are real. And some things are just the mask he wears so he can sit in his office and tut over bad maths.

  I open the laptop, turn it on. We get a dozen folders to look at. Each one is a different colour. Colours are much easier to work than numbers, or letters. They don’t somersault all over the page.

  Tom slides down next to me on the sofa. ‘You colour-code them?’

  I sort of nod, and my throat makes a tight, hoarse noise.

  ‘Interesting,’ he says, and then points to one of them. ‘Show me these.’ The red folder. My hand shakes as I click on it. He’s got no idea what’s in here, but I do. And I’m about to show it to my accountant. MY ACCOUNTANT. I don’t need to hold my breath, because I can’t breathe anyway. My hand is shaking so much that I keep misclicking on the icon. ‘Stupid laptop,’ I mutter, as I go in for another attempt. This time, Tom bats my hand away and does it himself.

  An image pops up on the screen. We have black and white, we have lingerie, we have tasteful lighting and we have the very velvet sofa that the two of us are sat on. We also have a woman leaning over the arm, dark hair cascading forwards and obscuring her face, as her husband does her in the arse.

  ‘Oh’ Tom says. That’s it. Just ‘oh’. He shifts a little in his seat. We both sit there and stare at the picture, and I wonder what on earth happens now, because I’m so hot and so tense and so turned on that I think I might faint.

  ‘Do you want to see the rest?’ I blurt out.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, and there’s something very definite about his tone. It’s the same one he uses when he’s going through my record books and asking me if that’s a 5 or a 3. It’s familiar, and it makes me just brave enough to say what I say next.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ I continue, as I awkwardly try and set the thing going.

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘That you’re…that you’re a bit of a pervert.’

  His jaw goes tight, and I know I’ve gone too far. ‘I could say the same thing about you,’ he points out. ‘I’ve been doing your accounts for the past three years and I had no idea you did this sort of thing.’ One big hand gestures at the screen, as we flick on to the next shot. A close-up. The guy has pulled his cock almost all the way out. A whimper slips out of me as I look at it.

  ‘Please don’t tell anyone,’ I beg him, half my nerves screaming with arousal, the other half screaming with fear.

  Tom glances across at me, his blue eyes heavy lidded, his mouth soft and loose. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he takes the laptop from me and sets it on his knee, angling it so I still get a clear view of the screen. Then he reaches for the hem of my skirt and lifts it up. The movement is clumsy, with his arm bent at this awkward angle, but I’m too b
usy being shocked to worry about it. The picture moves on, just as Tom Hunt curves his fingers over the swell of flesh pushing out against my sensible no VPL knickers. He covers me with his hand, but he doesn’t rub. He squeezes.

  Oh. My. God.

  I can feel the pressure of that contact all the way to the ends of my hair. I lift out of the seat slightly, my shoulders digging back, my hips surging against his hand. I grab the arm of the sofa, the feel of the velvet the only thing that helps me fight off the whopper of an orgasm I’m on the brink of. I cannot come all over his hand. He’s my accountant, for goodness’ sake. He has a good job, a proper job, the sort of job I would have been doing if I was someone else, someone not completely blind to letters and numbers.

  ‘Don’t you like it?’ he asks me, and his voice is strained. ‘Am I not doing it right?’

  There’s no way I can answer that without incriminating myself, so I clamp my lips tight together and say nothing, as he continues to squeeze and the picture flicks on and the throb between my thighs becomes a roar. I swear he must be able to feel my clit pressing into his palm. It’s so hard it’s like a little girly erection, right there between my legs. I want to fuck him with it, right in his mouth, like he did with Amber.

  He’s turned around in his seat now, and he’s watching me so intently that I can feel his gaze on my skin like an extra pair of hands. He stops squeezing, and I nearly die. The picture flicks on again, showing my favourite image, the one where he’s spreading her arse cheeks wide and is buried all the way inside her. I turn my face away, biting down into my lip, wanting to scream with frustration, wanting to look, too afraid to do anything but fight this.

  ‘Don’t you want to look?’ Tom sounds confused. I know how he feels.

  ‘I…er…’

  ‘It’sOK,’ he tells me. ‘I don’t mind. Do you want me to touch you some more?’

  I’m nodding before I even know I’m doing it. Nodding so much my teeth clack together and it’s a miracle my head doesn’t fall off.

  He lifts his hand, angles it in, slides the tips of his fingers under the elastic of my knickers, and then stops. ‘On one condition.’

  ‘What?’ I huff out. I’m hardly in a condition to speak, and now he wants to negotiate?

  ‘You have to look at the pictures while I’m touching you.’

  I shouldn’t do this. I should pull his hand out of my underwear, and close the laptop and send him away. I’ll find myself someone else to do my taxes and we’ll never speak of this again, probably because I’ve moved to a remote island and am reduced to foraging and taking photos of sheep for Sheep Lovers Weekly.

  But my hands won’t seem to work, and the picture keeps changing, and his fingers dip down into the slick, slippery wetness that’s been building all day, and then he drags that hot moisture up to my clit and draws little circles around it with his index finger.

  His hand feels strange, so different to mine, sort of hard and stiff as he rubs and rubs and the picture keeps changing. The two of them have stopped fucking now, and instead she’s on her knees, with one hand on his thigh and the other on his cock, which is heavy and veined and swollen. Even in black and white it’s obvious how much the guy needs to come.

  The more I try to fight how much this turns me on, the closer my climax gets. It’s rumbling towards me now, like a freight train at speed, loud and unstoppable. I can feel it in my bum, in my vagina, in my breasts, in Tom’s hand and in my clit. I grab the edge of the sofa, the velvet rough against my palms as my hips lift. Tom keeps drawing the same slow, wet circle over me. He doesn’t change the pace, or the pressure. He won’t let me miss, even though I’m trying to.

  And then it hits me. Or more accurately, he shoves me into it, lungs burning, mouth dry, muscles cramping. It is blissful, delicious agony, the storm taking over as I come and then I come some more, all over his hand and the gusset of my nude no-VPL knickers.

  The last picture flashes onto the screen. One beautiful, perfect popshot. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve taken this picture, but I’ve never let myself fully surrender to the tug of arousal it creates in me before.

  And I don’t know what to do now.

  Chapter Four

  Tom eases his hand out of my underwear and I tug down my skirt, then grab the laptop and close it with more force than necessary. I can’t even bring myself to look at him. What do you say in this situation? Thanks, I needed that hardly seems appropriate, even if it is true.

  ‘Well,’ he says. ‘That was interesting. Did you know that you…’

  ‘Look,’ I cut him off before he can finish whatever it is that he’s about to say. I’m not sure I want to know. I’ve already learned more about myself than I can handle. ‘About this.’ I flap my hand in the direction of the laptop. ‘You can’t tell anyone.’

  ‘So you keep telling me.’

  ‘Not your mates down the pub, not the people you work with, not anyone.’

  ‘I’m a junior accountant,’ he says. ‘I work in a little office on my own twelve hours a day. Who am I going to tell?’

  ‘I…’ An image of Tom Hunt sat behind his desk flicks into my mind. His office is so plain, so bare, and so very grey, designed to be completely inoffensive. I can’t imagine being trapped in there all day, every day. ‘Please don’t tell,’ I say again.

  ‘I won’t tell anyone you take these pictures,’ he says, ‘if you don’t tell anyone you took pictures of me.’

  We stare at each other, and there’s a moment of understanding. Of realisation. He knows my dirty secret, but I know his, too. If either of us tells, destruction is mutually assured.

  ‘You’re right,’ I say, picking at imaginary lint on my skirt. ‘Of course you’re not going to tell anyone.’

  And right there and then, I realise what this means. I sneak a look at the front of his trousers. He’s hard. He’s so hard that the seams of his trousers seem to be struggling to hold it in. I’ve learned three things about Tom Hunt so far today. First, there was that tattoo of a bird on his stomach, which seemed so completely out of kilter with the rest of him when I first saw it. That was before I discovered that he can look at pornographic photographs without so much as batting an eye. And then there’s the fact that he’s got an absolutely massive cock.

  ‘Tom,’ I say, ‘can I ask you something?’

  ‘If you want.’

  Curiosity gets the better of me. ‘Why did you get that tattoo?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The bird.’ Which one? Wait a minute. Does this mean there are more?

  ‘Sometimes I just…’ He pauses, takes a breath then lets it out slowly. ‘Sometimes I just need to do something outrageous. I don’t know why.’

  I do. I think about his sterile, joyless office. About my plain, joyless clothes. ‘To stop yourself from going completely mad.’

  He glances across at me. ‘Yes. Can I ask you something?’

  ‘OK.’ I sit perfectly still, as if I’m preparing myself for the killer question on Mastermind. I’ve got no idea what he’s going to ask. I clasp my hands together, and then lock them safely between my thighs.

  ‘If I hadn’t come back for my wallet, would you have looked at those photos on your own?’

  I swallow. Hard. Mutually assured destruction, I remind myself. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Would you have touched yourself when you looked at them?’ His hand is creeping closer to his groin. His fingertips are close to the top of his thigh now, where the fabric of his trousers pulls tight.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, reaching for my camera, unable to take my eyes away from his hands and the bulge in his pants.

  ‘Tell me.’ His breathing is heavy again, his shoulders hunched in that way I now know means he’s aroused. ‘Tell me everything.’

  ‘I like to look at the pictures.’ I’m trembling. ‘I look at the pictures, and then I touch myself.’

  His hand moves to his zipper and eases it down, revealing the plain white cotton of hi
s underwear. The fabric stretched over the head of his cock is wet, and my pussy clenches at the sight of that dark little patch.

  ‘Where?’ he asks.

  I lift my camera, switch it on, and take the first shot. Too close. I get to my feet, step away from the sofa, focus. ‘Between my legs.’

  He eases the elastic of his boxers up over the head of his swollen cock, tucks it down under his balls, then takes himself in hand. ‘Say “pussy”,’ he orders me. ‘Or cunt, if you prefer.’

  ‘I…I can’t,’ I say, hating myself for it. I lift the camera, take another picture, hide behind the lens. God, he looks so incredible, sat there stroking himself. I zoom out, and this time I include all of him in the shot.

  ‘Why not?’ His hand glides over the head of his cock, which is slick with pre-come now. Then he lifts his fingers to his mouth and licks them, before putting that hand right back where it was before.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I admit. ‘I just can’t.’ I step further away, but I keep taking pictures. So many pictures. Lewd, pornographic, beautiful pictures. If he thought the pictures with Amber were dangerous, they have nothing on these. These shots are career-ending.

  And suddenly I realise that’s the point. He’s giving me something, here. Something I can use to destroy him if I want to. If I need to. We both fall into tense, erotic silence as he sits there and strokes himself, his gaze never leaving me as I take shot after shot.

  I see him swallow, see his cock harden and swell even more. ‘Tell me what you want,’ he says. ‘What do you want, Ellie?’

  So many things. ‘I want to…’ I want to fuck you, I think, but I don’t say it out loud, and then it’s too late.

  Tom tenses in his seat, cups his balls in one hand as he wraps the other around the head of his cock and gives a sharp twist, and spills himself all over the floor.

  Chapter Five

  ‘So,’ Amber says. ‘Am I forgiven?’

  I grip the phone a little tighter, stretch out my free hand and examine my cuticles. ‘I don’t know,’ I tell her truthfully. ‘Tom Hunt, of all people. Honestly, Amber. Why him?’