FIRE AND ICE
It's Christmas Eve, and I'm home alone, wrapped in my fleecy throw, and tucked up in front of the television with a lovely bottle of wine. Not for me the purgatory of fractious family shindigs that turn into Armageddon over the mince pies. I'm just happy on my own, doing my own thing, chilling out but toasty.
Of course, there is someone with whom I'd like to spend Christmas. Someone with whom I'd gladly share my blanket and my wine. But if he was here, you could forget about the television.
Innes McKenzie is my boss, my unbelievably gorgeous boss, and the one I can thank for the yummy wine. He's just the sort of guy to remember a casual conversation from months ago, and take note of my favorite tipple for future reference. He's like that, thoughtful and inventive.
The African Queen is on the box now, another Christmas favorite. I try to imagine Innes on a rackety riverboat covered in grease, like Bogart, but it's a reach. My boss is cool and immaculate and as beautiful as an angel. A very manly angel, naturally, and needless to say, I'm head over heels in love with him.
I can't help but wonder about his Christmas though. I picture his apartment, a place as immaculate and elegant as he is, maybe done out in white with monochrome silver decorations. He and some groomed, smart and sexy woman are eating a gourmet Christmas dinner, and later, they retire to his wide, expensively sheeted bed for some gourmet Christmas sex.
My mouth waters. Mmm, Innes a la carte.
His rich fruity wine is slipping down a treat now, and in my mind it's me in that snowy bed with him. Me, writhing and grappling with my hot, elegant boss. I've never seen Innes with his clothes off, of course, but imagining him is a pastime I indulge in all the time.
Inside my fleecy cocoon, I shimmy and wriggle, pretending that a naked and perfect Innes McKenzie is touching me. Here… there… everywhere. His skin is warm, his blue eyes are as brilliant as lasers, and his rampant cock is as magnificent as the rest of him.
I open my legs, sliding in my hand in lieu of his.
At work, he always moves in a very neat, spare, precise fashion, and I suspect that in bed he's just the same. No action wasted or over-done, everything efficient, full of meaning, accurate and fiery.
I'm wet now, thinking about him and mellowed by the wine. I start to moan, and Bogey and Hepburn are forgotten as my arousal circles around the imaginary totem of Innes McKenzie.
He likes me, I know that. But relationships in the same office are frowned upon at work. For the hundredth time, I consider a transfer, but then in another section, I wouldn't see Innes every day.
"Innes… Innes…" I moan, my pleasure rising as dark desire burns in those blue, imagined eyes. They glitter in my mind and I'm moments from the brink. Almost there, with him, in my dream world.
Then my mobile phone rings and snatches the orgasm from my grasp.
"Bugger, hell and damnation!"
Who can it be? I've told my family I'll visit at New Year, and told everyone else that I'm having quiet, opt-out Christmas. But clearly somebody didn't get the message or thinks I'll change my mind. Maybe it's my Mum, checking up to see if I've finally got the boyfriend she so wants for me?
My phone shrills again and I snatch it up. I wrinkle my nose because my fingers smell of me.
"Cally Hobbes." I try and inject a bit of peace and goodwill to all men into my voice, rather than sound like a young female Scrooge.
"Hello, Cally," croaks a voice I've never heard before.
I say I've never heard it before, but I have actually. Every working day. But I've never heard it sound like this before. It's my Innes, but his vocal chords seem to have been sand blasted.
"Hi, boss. Are you all right? You sound a bit husky." He sounds more than husky. He sounds absolutely terrible.
"I'm okay," he lies, in a gravelly near whisper so unlike his crisp, sexy tones. To me, he still sounds sexy in a backwards about way. "Thanks," he
It's Christmas Eve, and I'm home alone, wrapped in my fleecy throw, and tucked up in front of the television with a lovely bottle of wine. Not for me the purgatory of fractious family shindigs that turn into Armageddon over the mince pies. I'm just happy on my own, doing my own thing, chilling out but toasty.
Of course, there is someone with whom I'd like to spend Christmas. Someone with whom I'd gladly share my blanket and my wine. But if he was here, you could forget about the television.
Innes McKenzie is my boss, my unbelievably gorgeous boss, and the one I can thank for the yummy wine. He's just the sort of guy to remember a casual conversation from months ago, and take note of my favorite tipple for future reference. He's like that, thoughtful and inventive.
The African Queen is on the box now, another Christmas favorite. I try to imagine Innes on a rackety riverboat covered in grease, like Bogart, but it's a reach. My boss is cool and immaculate and as beautiful as an angel. A very manly angel, naturally, and needless to say, I'm head over heels in love with him.
I can't help but wonder about his Christmas though. I picture his apartment, a place as immaculate and elegant as he is, maybe done out in white with monochrome silver decorations. He and some groomed, smart and sexy woman are eating a gourmet Christmas dinner, and later, they retire to his wide, expensively sheeted bed for some gourmet Christmas sex.
My mouth waters. Mmm, Innes a la carte.
His rich fruity wine is slipping down a treat now, and in my mind it's me in that snowy bed with him. Me, writhing and grappling with my hot, elegant boss. I've never seen Innes with his clothes off, of course, but imagining him is a pastime I indulge in all the time.
Inside my fleecy cocoon, I shimmy and wriggle, pretending that a naked and perfect Innes McKenzie is touching me. Here… there… everywhere. His skin is warm, his blue eyes are as brilliant as lasers, and his rampant cock is as magnificent as the rest of him.
I open my legs, sliding in my hand in lieu of his.
At work, he always moves in a very neat, spare, precise fashion, and I suspect that in bed he's just the same. No action wasted or over-done, everything efficient, full of meaning, accurate and fiery.
I'm wet now, thinking about him and mellowed by the wine. I start to moan, and Bogey and Hepburn are forgotten as my arousal circles around the imaginary totem of Innes McKenzie.
He likes me, I know that. But relationships in the same office are frowned upon at work. For the hundredth time, I consider a transfer, but then in another section, I wouldn't see Innes every day.
"Innes… Innes…" I moan, my pleasure rising as dark desire burns in those blue, imagined eyes. They glitter in my mind and I'm moments from the brink. Almost there, with him, in my dream world.
Then my mobile phone rings and snatches the orgasm from my grasp.
"Bugger, hell and damnation!"
Who can it be? I've told my family I'll visit at New Year, and told everyone else that I'm having quiet, opt-out Christmas. But clearly somebody didn't get the message or thinks I'll change my mind. Maybe it's my Mum, checking up to see if I've finally got the boyfriend she so wants for me?
My phone shrills again and I snatch it up. I wrinkle my nose because my fingers smell of me.
"Cally Hobbes." I try and inject a bit of peace and goodwill to all men into my voice, rather than sound like a young female Scrooge.
"Hello, Cally," croaks a voice I've never heard before.
I say I've never heard it before, but I have actually. Every working day. But I've never heard it sound like this before. It's my Innes, but his vocal chords seem to have been sand blasted.
"Hi, boss. Are you all right? You sound a bit husky." He sounds more than husky. He sounds absolutely terrible.
"I'm okay," he lies, in a gravelly near whisper so unlike his crisp, sexy tones. To me, he still sounds sexy in a backwards about way. "Thanks," he
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