CHAPTER ONE
Kellie
I close my eyes and sigh as my hands slide under my panties. I’ve just finished a long day of getting screamed at by irate customers who insist that we should honor their fraudulent claims because “that’s what we pay for” and finally have a moment to myself.
Funny how everyone expects us to keep our end of the bargain, but no one thinks they should keep their end of the bargain. I did manage to approve one claim, from a poor old lady who was fortunately out of her house when the ancient wiring decided to pick today to fail and burn down the place she bought with her husband sixty years ago.
At the end of the call, she tearfully thanks me and says, “You’re a truly good person, Kellie.”
That leaves me with a smile and a warm, fuzzy feeling. That feeling lasts exactly as long as it takes for my phone to ring again so I can listen to fifteen minutes of rage from the next disgruntled customer.
I’m trying to recapture some of that warm, fuzzy feeling now, although this is a far cry from the warm, fuzzy feeling of earlier. This warm and fuzzy could more appropriately be described as hot and bothered. Unlike the earlier feeling, which was prompted by a living, breathing human being, the source of my current feeling doesn’t exist outside of my own mind.
Well, you can’t win everything. I have a successful career and a nice plump savings account. I drive a brand-new luxury car and when I feel like it, I can eat at very nice restaurants without worrying about the impact those meals have on my bank account.
The only thing I don’t have is an actual man to touch me, so I have to substitute my imagination and my fingers for an actual cock. It turns out most men only say they like strong women. In my experience, men last about as long with strong women as a flame lasts in an oxygen-free environment.
Today has been so rough that I don’t even have enough energy to bemoan my loneliness. I just focus on my dream man and allow my fingers to move of their own accord over my clit. My dream man is strong. He’s tall. He’s handsome. He’s basically what you might imagine a woman’s fantasy of a man would be with the notable exception that instead of feeling a need to rescue and protect me, he worships me for the fact that I don’t need those things. I smile and imagine him telling me how brave and strong I am for standing my ground even when everyone hates me for it. That turns me on even more than his rock-hard body, chiseled features, and thick, powerful cock.
Hey, it’s a fantasy. Let me have my cake and eat it too.
That thought makes me imagine what it would feel like to be eaten out myself. It’s not a common fantasy of mine. Frankly, my past experience with oral sex doesn’t give me a lot of faith that I’ll ever find a man who knows what he’s doing down there.
No matter. I have my fantasy man.
I moan as I imagine him sliding up and replacing his mouth with his cock once more. I stick two fingers inside me while my other hand grips my breast until it’s nearly painful.
“Oh God,” I moan. “Oh, just like that.”
I thrust faster and faster as my orgasm builds until—
Brrriiinng! Brrriiinng!
My phone rings, jarring me from my fantasy just before the climax. I check the number and sigh in frustration. It's work.
Well, fuck it, they can leave a message.
I wait for the ringing to stop, then return to the task at hand. Once more, I am just about to climax when the phone rings again.
“Dammit!” I shout, removing my hands from my panties.
I lay and listen to the phone ring as my climax disappears beyond reach. Lovely. What a fantastic end to a fantastic day.
I reach over and answer the phone. “What?” I spit, making no attempt to hide my irritation.
“Kellie,” Annette, the office secretary, says. “I’m so sorry to call you this late.”
“That’s okay,” I say. “I wasn’t doing anything important.”
“Oh good,” she says, completely missing the sarcasm. “I’m glad.”
“What’s up, Annette?” I ask, still making no attempt to hide my frustration.
“Someone just submitted a claim,” she says.
“You don’t say?” I quip. “I’m sure there’s a great reason why Art can’t handle it.”
“Art called out,” she says. “He has the flu.”
