The Boss (6 page)

‘Let's get you home, Felicity.'

‘Yeah, yeah, but your place . . . mine's full of little sisters and stuff, and Mum'll be back . . . once Archie's bonked her brains out.'

He didn't answer but continued to steer me along the road until we'd reached my gate. I knew I was drunk and that he was turning my offer down, which filled me with all sorts of emotions, mainly self-pity, and I found myself looking up at him through hazy eyes.

‘You're not really going to go, are you, Stephen? I thought you liked me? I thought you were going to take me home and bonk me.'

‘I really think you should go to bed, Felicity. Sleep it off, that's the best thing.'

‘Aw, come on, what's the point of getting pissed if you can't have some fun? You can bonk me, I don't mind, really . . . And you're my boss, you ought to bonk me, don't you think, or at least make me give you a bj?'

I was running my fingers down his chest as I spoke and felt the hard muscles move as he swallowed, encouraging me.

‘Oh, you do want to, don't you. Come on, do it here. Nobody will see if we go in the back garden. Come on, let's have your cock out, I bet you've got a lovely cock. I'll suck you, shall I? I'm a good little cocksucker, Stephen. I'll show you, shall I?'

‘Felicity!'

I'd moved in close, sliding my hand down to his crotch. Whatever he was saying, he was ready for me, his cock a hard bar in his pants. I went down, meaning to take him out so he'd have to come into the back with me, but he detached my fingers and stood away.

‘Felicity, really, you're very drunk, and I'm sure you'll regret this in the morning.'

‘No I won't, and you do want me, don't you?'

‘Yes, of course I do, but look, really . . .'

‘Oh, come on, please? I'll lick your balls. I bet you like that?'

‘I . . . I'd better go. Goodnight.'

He'd gone back through the gate and set off quickly down the road. I stood there for a long moment, swaying slightly, and wondering what the matter was. He'd been ready and so had I, more than ready. Maybe he was just nice and didn't want to take advantage of me, and yet that was exactly what I wanted, to be taken advantage of. When I finally moved it wasn't indoors but around the side, to the back garden where I'd
planned to take him. It was perfect because only my room and the kitchen overlooked it, while it was far too dark for any of the neighbours to see, especially under the trees.

I went to sit on the swing, drinking sherry with my legs cocked well apart to balance myself. My head felt hot with alcohol, my body sensitive and urgent, both because I was horny and because I felt so sorry for myself. He should have fucked me, maybe bent over the swing. Yes, that would have been dirty, with me bent over and my skirt turned up, my knickers pulled down to get my bum bare and his cock eased in up me from behind. It would have felt so nice.

Before I really knew what I was doing I'd stood up to push my knickers off under my skirt. It felt good, and better when I'd sat my bare bum on the seat. I began to swing, keeping my legs spread wide to let the cool air touch my pussy and wishing he was there to watch me play dirty and to fuck me. I pulled my top and bra up, imagining him cajoling me into stripping while he got hard over what he could see. Again I began to swing, now nearly nude, and when I picked up the sherry bottle for another swig the feel of the cold hard glass decided me on what I would do.

I began to rub it on myself, first pressing it to my nipples and tummy, then lower, rubbing the width of the bottle between my thighs, to bump the raised letters saying whoever had made the stuff right onto my clit. It felt good, so deliciously rude, so naughty to be swinging near nude in the cool night air, my clothing dishevelled, my titties and bum and pussy all nice and bare as I used the bottle to bring myself high, and higher still, to a gasping, shivering orgasm that left me feeling weak and, for some reason, very close to tears.

WHAT HAD I
done? I'd got drunk and propositioned my boss. I'd asked him to fuck me. I'd offered to suck his cock. I'd offered to lick his balls.

It didn't bear thinking about, only I didn't have much choice. On the Monday I was going to have to go into work and face him, unless of course he had already decided to sack me. My headache didn't help either.

The rest of the weekend passed in a blur. Every time the phone rang I expected it to be him, with a curt instruction that I needn't bother to come in after all. I tried to tell myself it was exactly what I wanted, but not only had I already spent my first year's salary in my head, but deep within I badly wanted to see him again and for him not to be cross with me.

Even Mum's roast chicken dinner seemed to turn to ashes in my mouth, but no phone call ever came. I went to bed early, making the excuse that I wanted to be at my best in the morning, but in reality still feeling a little tender after the sherry.

Monday morning was not good. From the moment I woke up I was filled with apprehension, also self-reproach, telling myself that it would all have been OK if he'd accepted my offer. I hadn't felt that way since waiting outside the headmaster's study after driving a hockey ball through his window while he was talking with the chairman of the Board of Governors, only
worse. At least I hadn't offered to lick the headmaster's balls.

I'd made sure I was immaculate, in a navy skirt suit over a white blouse, with stockings and a ribbon tie, my hair up and just a touch of make-up. Why looking respectable was supposed to make it better I didn't really know, only that it seemed the right thing to do. I'd turned up a little early too, keen to seem as efficient as possible, but the big glass doors were already open onto the now finished interior where Stephen English was standing at the desk – my desk. He greeted me with a smile, perfectly friendly if maybe a bit stern, but I was stumbling my apology out before I could stop myself.

‘I . . . I'm really sorry about the other night, that is, I shouldn't have drunk . . . and . . .'

He put a hand up and I stopped.

‘Don't mention it, please. Least said, soonest mended, and it was my fault anyway. I don't suppose you're used to sherry? It's strong stuff.'

I managed a nod, feeling embarrassed and also pathetically grateful. He gave me another of his smiles and gestured to the desk.

‘This will be your work station. Your primary function is to receive potential clients and enquiries, in person, on the phone and by email. Anything technical should be passed on to Paul, anything else to me. With time you can also handle sales to private customers, although this is not a key part of our marketing strategy. For now, I'd like you to familiarise yourself with our computer system.'

As he spoke my head had been going up and down like one of those nodding dogs you get in the backs of cars, and he finished with a beaming smile. As I turned
towards my desk, he gave me just the gentlest of pats on my bum to send me on my way. It was like an electric shock, a gesture at once so assertive, so condescending and so casually intimate. I felt outraged but at the same time pleased, because he'd shown me affection after rejecting me before, a reaction that provoked further outrage, at myself.

He'd turned me on with one touch like a switch. As I sat down, I couldn't help but wonder if he'd make a habit of it. Because I'd shown my true feelings he would now take casual control of my body, touching me when he pleased and where he pleased. The thought sent a shiver through me, even as I was telling myself it was an appalling way for him to behave.

To make it worse, he'd ducked down next to me to explain the workings of the computer system, which meant I could feel the firm muscle of his upper arm pressing against me, and smell his skin and some very masculine lotion he used. It was intoxicating and I had to force myself to concentrate as he showed me how to check the stock list and a dozen other functions.

I soon had the hang of the computer and was left to my own devices for a while. Paul was in the back, tinkering with bits of their equipment, and Stephen had joined him, only coming back to me when he wanted a coffee. I'd already guessed I'd be coffee girl and it shouldn't have been a big deal, but as I went through the motions it was impossible not to feel that I was serving him, personally.

That just isn't me. I've always held my own in relationships, more often taken the initiative. Now I was feeling grateful to have my bum patted and to be allowed to make coffee, and for a man who had rejected an open advance from me. Worse, he was a
suit. Mum even approved of him. It was appalling, but I couldn't help it, and even found myself giving him a little curtsey as I passed over the coffee.

He didn't notice, reacting only with a distracted ‘thank you' as he studied a diagram Paul was holding up, which only served to make my feelings worse. Just being there was bad enough, because for all my desire to see myself as a spy, I felt more like a captive. To be in love with my boss was almost too much. Part of me wanted to run screaming from the room, but it was an impulse I was unable to follow.

I'd gone back to my desk to drink my own coffee and continue to familiarise myself with the mysteries of their computer system, but I'd barely sat down when Stephen's head appeared through the inner door.

‘Can we borrow you for a minute, Felicity?'

‘Sure.'

I hopped down from my chair, which was quite high, and as I reached him he spoke again.

‘This is a minor point, but I do think we will gain by projecting a professional image at all times, during office hours that is, so that it becomes second nature in the presence of clients.'

‘I'm sorry, how do you mean?'

‘Well, for instance, although naturally I wouldn't expect anything of the sort outside hours, I think it would be best if you addressed me as Mr English, and Paul as Mr Minter.'

‘If you like.'

‘I think it's best.'

So he got to call me Felicity while I had to call him Mr English. Why didn't he just put me in a French maid's uniform and give me a feather duster while he was at it?

We'd come into the warehouse, where Paul was now standing high among a bank of gadgetry, with all five camera models set up on a gantry and a spaghetti of wires running up to his computer. He gave a thumbs-up signal and Stephen spoke to me again.

‘If you could walk forward, towards the cameras, then turn left and continue a little way.'

I was facing the cameras so it was already too late as I realised the significance of the act. They were on, recording me, putting my face into the recognition program. I flinched but there was nothing to be done, only walk on as instructed, just like a good little dolly-bird receptionist should. Stephen continued to talk, oblivious to my stolen image or the gross invasion of my privacy his act represented.

‘This is just a test, of course. Once we're sure of the system we'll repeat it somewhere more picturesque.'

‘With me?'

‘Of course. It's a curious thing but marketing studies repeatedly show that better results are achieved by visually pleasing presentations. Thus, while it makes no difference whatsoever in terms of demonstrating our equipment, sales can be predicted to show a significant improvement if our presentation shows you walking along a woodland path, rather than, say, me walking between a row of packing crates. It's an entirely subconscious reaction, but that's true of so much of advertising.'

‘So your computer can now recognise my face?'

‘I certainly hope so or we've wasted a great deal of money. Could you go out of the room and come in again, please?'

I obeyed, praying the whole thing would cock up and that the system would either fail to recognise me
completely or decide I was somebody else. It didn't. Almost on the instant I stepped back into the warehouse Paul's system gave a self-satisfied ping. He clapped his hands in approval.

‘Perfect! That took less than a second, and at a different angle to her initial approach.'

Stephen beamed. ‘That's good. Now we know the Koreans haven't sold us a dud and the system can recognise a face, but there are still tests to be done to make sure it's able to pick your face from among others.'

Paul called down, ‘It knows she's not you or me, but we'll need a much bigger sample before we can get an idea of percentage efficiency.'

Stephen gave a reflective nod. ‘Bit of a chicken and egg situation there. We have the original Korean data, of course, but buyers like to see these things working on the ground, and of course we can't gather our own data until we have a system installed.'

He wandered off, looking thoughtful. They were evidently done with me, so I returned to my desk. A few clicks and I had my face up on the screen, labelled not as Felicity Cotton, but as 0000003. The thing had reduced me to a number, which was no big surprise, and also seemed to be capable of storing ten million faces. It had even captured me in 3D, allowing me to examine my head from different angles, including from above and behind, which was bizarre. I could also play back the video, making my machine beep and display my code number every time it recognised me.

I had to admit there was a certain fascination to it, and it also gave me that uneasy feeling which had been creeping up on me in the last few years, that the sort of illegal things I liked to do were in fact wrong
and that I should stop, or in my darker moments, that I should be punished. Not that I was going to be confessing to anything in a hurry, but I did seem to be developing an adult conscience, which was all very depressing.

Stephen's voice cut through my reverie.

‘The council advisory team is coming on Wednesday. We need to have something to show them, and that means getting the video done today. As I was saying, we want it to look visually appealing, but I think you should look slightly suspicious too, otherwise we risk creating the impression of intrusion rather than valid surveillance. Perhaps if you put on some old jeans and a pair of trainers, and would you mind wearing one of those awful hooded tops?'