George Perkins, junior accountant, liked his job. Steele Pots and Pans was a busy company, and his department kept up on the scores of paperwork quite efficiently. It was a good enough job, if you got past some of the stranger rules that the Accounting department had instituted.
The expense reports, for one. The accounting team usually processed them without blinking an eye, or double-checking the line items—even the more outlandish ones. It was a rather strange policy. Perkins hailed from the accounting department of a rather prestigious law firm, and even those expense reports had nothing on the ones from Steele’s.
For instance: a new director had just put in her first expense report, and there had to be a few mistakes. There were several line items for purchases that must have been outside of company regulations—the bar bill alone!
He’d asked around the office, but no one had seen anything wrong, so he’d decided to take some initiative.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Ms. Blumenthal,” he said, glancing at the new director. He’d given her a call first, but she’d told him she’d rather take his question in person, and without thinking, he’d gone. Some directors could be a bit sensitive about their expense reports. He hadn’t expected there’d be such a level of secrecy for a mid-size pots and pans company, but you never knew. He closed her office door behind himself.
“I’ve just noticed a few lines in your expense report I wanted to verify,” he said. “I have to say, I’m not used to see so many line items for dry cleaning—”
Ms. Blumenthal smiled at him from behind the desk as he sat down.
“—and also, Chilean Chardonnay,” he said, and hesitated. “I wanted to clarify, Ms. Blumenthal, that it’s not necessary to specify on the form—”
“I think it’s very necessary,” Ms. Blumenthal said, leaning forward a little. “I think it’s important that Steele’s knows I wouldn’t put anything low quality on my reports, don’t you?”
Perkins managed a smile. “Well, I suppose, if you’re going to put it that way,” he said. “Of course, if it isn’t a business expense—”
“Of course it’s a business expense,” Ms. Blumenthal said. “Our clients expect us to offer certain… perks, don’t you agree?”
“Perks?” he asked, slowly.
Ms. Blumenthal smiled at him. And for the first time, he noticed that she was indeed a very attractive woman. Her black hair spilled over her shoulders as she eyed him, and then stood, coming around the desk to perch on the edge right beside him.
It put her very close. George cleared his throat as he shifted the chair back a few inches — it went easily, as it was one of those Aeron chairs with the wheels, he’d seen the purchasing order for them — so George could talk to her and not her thighs, which Ms. Blumenthal had crossed beguilingly as she’d sat down.
“Er—excuse me—” he said, pulling the expense report off the desk from underneath her, as she’d sat on it. Ms. Blumenthal raised an eyebrow. He tried to remember what they’d been talking about. “What I meant to say is, perks are important—”
“Our sales team expects them,” she said, smiling. “But I think that everyone in a company like this ought to really enjoy what we have to offer first, don’t you think? You know, if we don’t take care of our own….”
“You mean, like a discount on cookware—?” he said. “I think HR already extended a generous discount program—”
Then her words fully resonated with him, and for the first time, Perkins looked down to the placard on her desk.
Belinda Blumenthal, Sales Director.
Oh. Oh, God.
“Are you meaning to say—” he said, a shiver of trepidation running through him. “That you’re the new Sales Director, Ms. Blumenthal?”
Too late, Perkins recalled the other rule the Accounting Department had instituted. It had been one he’d been told on his first day:
Never, ever, meet with the Sales Team in person. In fact, even phone calls were bad and only email was safe.
Belinda Blumenthal smiled at him, and shifted just a little. The movement subtly called attention to her generous breasts, and her nipples stirred from the imprisoning confines of her brassiere.
Perkins jerked his gaze away, feeling a bit flushed. What was he doing, staring at a coworker’s breasts so blatantly? HR would have a field day.
Also, wasn’t he a gay man, for Christ’s sake?
Still, for the first time in his life, he felt his eyes drawn inexorably toward a woman’s bosom. He resisted and managed to keep his eyes firmly on Ms. Blumenthal’s face, but it was like being swept away in a current of desire. He was struggling like a swimmer caught in an undertow that would eventually overwhelm and drown him without mercy.
“Ms. Blumenthal,” he said, clutching the report before he pushed it forward, feeling sweat break out along his upper lip and forehead. “I could just leave these with you, if you like, to—to peruse—”
Ms. Blumenthal blinked. “Of course not,” she said, and he felt his body begin to respond, just to the dulcet smoothness of her voice. “I want to go through these reports line by line… by line… until we’re both very satisfied by the results.”
“I think I’m fine—” Perkins said, pushing the chair back a little more, the deep carpet casters (an additional £35 per chair!) rolling smoothly, but Ms. Blumenthal leaned forward. A few buttons of her blouse popped open—by accident or by seductive design, Perkins did not know and no longer cared.
He’d never been so physically attracted to a woman before, or to anyone. It was overwhelming. For a fleeting moment, George wondered if he’d had it all wrong, or perhaps should have categorized himself more as a bisexual than a definitely gay man. Or maybe, he thought, clutching the arms of the chair as Ms. Blumenthal bore down upon him—maybe he should categorize himself as a… Belindasexual .
Ms. Blumenthal coyly straddled him, her skirt slip gaping up the side of her thigh like a bascule bridge parting for a steam ship. He could already feel the steamy heat of her vagina pressing against his partially erect penis.
“Please,” purred Ms. Blumenthal. “Tell me more about your… expenditures.”
“Ms. Blumenthal—” George croaked, as she unbuttoned her blouse and discarded it on the floor.
“Please , call me Belinda,” she said, stroking the length of his tie before she put the tip in her mouth, staining the red polyester with her saliva.
“Belinda—” he said, his hands slowly finding their way to her breasts, the heavy weight of them like two orbs of custard. “Er, my name’s Perkins—I mean, George—”
She purred over him, her quick hands slipping down to undo his trousers and jerk them open. Tie still lodged between her teeth and tongue, she guided him into her and began to ride him with quick, undulating thrusts of her hips.
Every thrust sent the chair jerking back a few inches, and Perkins found himself clutching onto Ms. Blumenthal as he was taken for the ride around the room, the chair rocking a rather circuitous route.
Some part of himself not lost in the pleasure of Ms. Blumenthal's moist passage dimly thought that they were making pretty good pace around the office floor. The pleasure built as they circled the desk. Ms. Blumenthal moaned throatily in appreciation, her tongue rubbing against the smooth satin of his tie as George squeezed her tits. He'd never before had much preoccupation with breasts; her nipples abraded his palms, hard and stiff against his soft accountant's hands. She arched her back seductively into the gesture, her head tipping back as they jerked around the room. Her long, thick hair swayed rhythmically behind her. Pushed to its limit, his tie unclipped itself and fell from Perkins' collar, swinging in time with Ms. Blumenthal's tresses. Far away, he was glad that he had worn the clip-on today. He could have been strangled!
"Parkins-" Belinda growled. Perkins did not correct her. She came, her inner muscles clutching hard on his stiff and pole-like erection. He felt the gush of her ecstasy flood over him and as they rounded the corner of the desk, he came. He spilled into her, his ejaculation deeply powerful.
They slowed to a stop.
"Wow," he mumbled, sagging against the chair. They'd managed to make a loop around the desk at least three times.
“Where’s Perkins at?"
Arthur Curts surveyed his accounting kingdom with a steely eye. His department wasn’t one of the biggest in Steele Pots and Pans, of course, but he liked to believe they kept the life blood of the company flowing. Or at very least, the digestive tract, which was important too.
Sarah Selby, senior accountant, shook her head and shrugged before turning back to her thick stack of spreadsheets.
“He can’t be on a break already,” Curts said grimly. He glanced at the other staff.
“I think he’s gone up to see the new director,” Betty Ann, the receptionist, said. She was clutching a stack of papers, freshly warm from the photocopier. “He said he had to talk about a few things with her.”
A frisson of horror passed over Curts' face. The very tips of his moustache seemed to grey.
“Are you telling me Perkins went up there? Alone?”
Betty Ann looked startled. “Well, yes… he said that Ms. Blumenthal might’ve made a mistake on her expense report. Is that wrong…?”
“Blumenthal!” he said, gripping the side of the nearest cubicle like it was the landing skid of the last chopper out of Saigon. “Didn’t anyone read the form? Blumenthal’s the newest Director! She’s in Sales!”
Silence answered his pronouncement.
Selby finally looked up from her monitors, her eyes suddenly much older than they’d been a few minutes ago. Betty Ann clutched the folders she’d been carrying tightly in one arm before she covered her mouth with her hand in mute horror.
“He went up ten minutes ago, sir,” Alan Arkwright, the other junior accountant, said quietly.
Ten minutes ago. As one, the office staff looked at the clock.
Curts exhaled. “It’s too late for him, then. He’s lost now.”
Another moment of silence as the fact sunk in. The rest of the office looked askance at each other, or at the framed pictures of their loved ones on their desks.
Betty Ann sniffled.
“Pull yourself together,” Curts cut in, with the grim efficiency of a man who had seen far too much in the pots and pans industry. He ruffled the thinning hair atop his head, which had begun making a slow but steady retreat ever since the first day he’d come to work for Steele. Soon, it would find its exhausted resting place, somewhere a few inches above his ears. “I’ll need you to write up a new posting for another junior accountant, Betty Ann.”
Betty Ann wiped her eyes quickly and nodded, clutching her files before she hurried off to her cubicle.
“Bad luck,” Alan said, sticking his hands in his pockets. “At least it was only Perkins, eh? It could have been the entire purchasing team, like last time—”
“Don’t talk to me about the purchasing team,” Curts said. The Leather Room purchase order debacle had been a bleak day for Steele Pots and Pans. There was a small memorial photograph of the three brave men—one of which was the former Director of Accounting and Curts' mentor—in the break room, right above the microwave and electric kettle.
“We all know the rules,” he said, glaring at his staff one by one. They each met his gaze in turn, nodded, and looked away.
“No physical contact with the sales team,” he said, every word intoned like etchings on a stone tablet. “Email and phone only —and that goes from reception all the way up, people. Don’t get sloppy. Remember Perkins. He was one of the best of us.”
“I have his ID,” Betty Ann said, her eyes still quite red, before she handed it over.
Curts nodded grimly. The office was quiet as he silently made his way to the break room.
The photo of the purchasing team hung in the center of the small makeshift memorial, beside the neatly scripted sign that politely reminded staff to wash out the microwave plate once in awhile, since no one here was anyone else’s mother. The photo wasn’t the only one posted, though. There were a few ID badges, as well as a Post-It note or two containing prayers and well-wishes.
Curts dutifully clipped Perkins’s ID alongside them.
“We’ll miss you, son,” he said gruffly. Oh, they’d see Perkins around from time to time, maybe. But once the Sales team got its hooks into you, you were never quite the same again, and eventually, you’d quit. It was why the HR department was built like the Tower of London and why the Sales team was excused from all company-wide meetings, picnics, and sexual harassment trainings.
Curts had heard that his old mentor had actually gone down to Kent to raise chickens and sell eggs at a corner shop, in the end. Curts tried not to think too much about him. His eyes scanned over the small collection of smiling faces, and he shook his head. Someday, he'd find his own chicken farm, if he was lucky. They all would, in the end. For now, it was only a fight to keep his own precarious grip on existence. There was still the month-end close to complete.
Poor Perkins. He could only imagine what was being done to him now.
"The horror," he muttered, shaking his head once more for good measure before he headed to turn on the electric kettle. "The horror."