Page 94 of Has Anyone Seen My Sex Life?
‘Why not?’
He laughs. I don’t know what I’ve just suggested here. We’ve never done it here, in his office. I feel the thrill, the same excitement when we were in the Volvo as he looks me in the eye and pulls me in with one arm. With his other hand, he unbuttons the top of my jeans. I’m not wearing the sexiest of pants – I think they may have cartoon llamas on them but he doesn’t care. His fingers reach down, parting the lips of my pussy and locating my clit. His lips are next to my ear.
‘You ready, Mrs Morton?’
I can barely handle this newfound intimacy between us. My breath quickens and I feel myself pulse at his touch. He pulls my jeans down past my hips and then brushes the bullet against my clit. Fuck. He alters the rhythm and lightness of the touch and my body jolts with pleasure.
‘It works then.’ I nod, my mouth agape. He slides a finger inside me, pressing towards my G-spot. I exhale deeply. Perched against his desk, he rolls my jeans down and unbuttons his trousers, pressing an erection against the inside of my thigh, still hovering the bullet over my clit that aches to feel the vibrations against it. He lifts my knees and penetrates me lightly, my hands steadied on the desk, his breath and lips light on the inside of my neck. He pushes harder, more rhythmically. The bin bag falls to the floor, sex toys everywhere, a huge rubber dildo bounces across the wooden floors with incredible momentum. A couple of toys start buzzing, one lights up. What the hell, Danny? But he does what he always does, he looks me in the eye and smiles broadly as I come, the sensation soaring up my spine, my arms giving way as I fall back on to his desk and a giant stack of paper is swept into the air and rains over us.
‘What was that noise then?’
Of course, once Danny has finished then it’s neither the time nor place for post-coital romance. He is even efficient enough to ask whether I had some baby wipes about my person so he could wipe himself down. Such is the sex we have as parents that we are now experts when it comes to the clean-up process so our kids know we weren’t indulging in any sort of misbehaviour.
‘That was the vibrator buzzing, no?’
‘No, when you came…you kinda bayed like a cow.’
And this is Danny’s version of pillow talk.
‘Naff off. You can talk.’
‘I don’t make sex sounds.’
‘No, just that weird spasmy orgasm thing when your nostrils flare like a bullock.’
Danny laughs. ‘It was good though, eh?’
I find it hard to contain my smiles. ‘Maybe.’ It was better than good, frigging fantastic. We beam at each other like giggling teens as he adjusts his pants and pulls out a wedgie trying to not let it take away from five minutes ago, where I literally felt myself orgasm through my eyeballs. Office sex. Maybe it’s something I should have instigated sooner. It feels naughty and I’m pretty sure that was part of the thrill.
‘Do you ever think your dad had sex in here?’
‘Stop talking now. Help me pick up this stuff. Make sure you check nothing’s rolled under the desk too.’
The phone on his desk suddenly rings and Danny scrambles into action.
‘Martin? The delivery was due tomorrow morning. But if they’re here, they’re here. Could you follow the van up to the main building and you can help me unload everything. Cheers lad.’ He turns to me. ‘Balls, they’re delivering machine parts now. Look, handle this and I’ll handle that…’
I look over to him and gesture that him doing up his flies may be handy. His cheeks are a bit flushed, that sort of bewildered look about his face whenever he’s just come and it looks like he’s run a 5K. He sorts himself out whilst I spy a gimp mask in the top of the filing cabinet and put it on. Danny looks up and trips over himself to see me. I do a little dance.
‘You bloody clown. Take that off.’
‘Can I wear this next time I’m modelling for you?’
‘It’d keep you quiet at least.’
‘Wouldn’t be able to watch the telly though.’
He laughs and exits the room. I take off the mask, thinking it’d save me having to put on make-up. In the bin bag you go. I then sit by the edge of Danny’s desk and survey the damage. It looks like there was an explosion of sex toys and administration here. I collect the toys and put them back in their black bags, heeding Danny’s advice which was lucky as a vibrator had rolled under his desk. Marie on cleaning wouldn’t have known what to do with herself. I count twenty-five dildos and wonder what one calls a collection of dildos? I have no control over the rules of the English language but I vote it should be a litter of dildos. Maybe a troop. I laugh to myself. I have an extended troop of dildos that I store next to my bevy of butt plugs.
I suddenly find the very dildo that started this whole affair; the one that arrived in the post that morning. Hello again, old friend. You are still abnormally huge and blue. I stare at it in my hands for longer than needs be. What if things had worked out differently that morning? What if Danny had met with the postie and done breakfast? Would this still be a secret? I am not sure if that still niggles. But it’s progressed from that. I just have to rationalise that the whole Mintcake situation is a manifestation of being unhappy professionally, him wanting to spread his artistic wings. I have to stop thinking he wants more than me and the kids. I hear a door open to the main building downstairs and a straining noise which undeniably sounds like two men moving a box that’s too heavy, meaning one of them will probably do his dodgy shoulder in. I hustle and grab the remaining sex harnesses and tubes of lube, squirreling them away into the black bag in my hands. Gin and tonic flavoured lube? They really like to cash in on current fads, don’t they? Does it have alcohol content? That would make a blow job worthwhile if I could get caned at the same time. The office all clear, I tie the handles of the bag and move on to the piles of paper that are strewn across the floor. Oh, the joys of having a husband in paper. I shuffle a few pages together and glance over the words. Perhaps these are some new drawings? I may need to get nosy and have a gander.
I see a PO Box number at the top of the page. Do they still have PO Boxes? The letter is addressed to C Mintcake. Hey, I know him. Sat on the floor of the office, I start to read the letter addressed to him, every word making me heavy with emotion. Oh, Danny. I flick through the pages underneath me. This isn’t just one letter. There’s at least thirty of them. Some from agents, others from publishers – both big and independent. Letters from magazines, production companies, galleries. There are large numbers on every one, words of praise and hyperbole. They’re talking about exhibitions and documentaries and merchandise, trying to lure him in with the promises of money and fame. And I start to tear up because a lesser man would have succumbed to such promises. He’d have run into the sunset, leaving me and his daughters behind and bought a mansion in the sun with his newfound sex empire earnings.
But he didn’t. He stayed. There’s even a letter here from the Wezzie, signed by Diana. We offered him money for an interview. The amount offered may be why we have to bring our own mugs to work. Tears start to blot the words as I look around this office and know why he didn’t go anywhere. He stayed for this place, for his people, for his family. He stayed for me, the girls. He stayed because he’s a decent sort of man. It’s why I’m here too.
Seventeen
‘Uncle Stu has peanut butterandmarmite on his toast,’ a little face grumbles to me beside the kitchen counter.
