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The Temp
by Kaye Heche © 2005

erotic fiction The place I have been temping at for the last few months has started to take me for granted. At least the bitch that makes the assignments has. She didn’t call me yesterday because I refused to go back to the office of Mr. Supercreep and asked to work for someone else. It's either him or Ms. Allen, she yips. I'm not working for that loon, either. Not this week. I'm too tired to argue so I say 'uh, huh' and hang up the phone.

I call in to the other agency and tell them I need a break from my usual place and to please send me to the smaller office across town. I don't have as many friends there but it isn't so hectic and Brunhilda will soon have to explain to her bosses what has become of their most efficient temp.

The secretary at the smaller place is a really white, this-close-to-albino guy but not bad looking, considering. I can tell he is happy to see me again, although he doesn't smile, and he gives me an easy assignment. At lunch he sits with me and apologizes for not being "cool" but he'd like my number. I look him over again. There is certainly nothing cool about him, but I have spoken to him on several occasions. He is very intelligent. He has a nice body. When my eyes have wandered down as far as his thighs, he informs me he is a tri-athelete. I look up pretending to be taken aback by what he's inferring. You work out too, he says innocently. Then he cracks a joke because he remembers that women like it when men make them laugh and he's got me. I write my phone number on the receipt and go back to work.

I'm lying on the beach getting browner by the second. I wonder how my hands will look against his alabaster skin. I get out the cell phone to check my messages and then immediately wish I hadn't. My cousin and her husband are coming down for the weekend to stay with me. It's an emergency—somebody's funeral. I can vividly imagine the house full of relatives I barely know and have no interest in. I get myself real worked up about it and then realize that I have to go home and clean.

In the car, I call back to check my messages again because the voice said there were three and I hung up after the first two were from my cousin. It's Ryan, he says. Do I want to go out for drinks this weekend? God, do I want to. I won't, though, because I have to entertain my cousins and pretend I care my step-uncle’s somebody’s girlfriend has died.

The following weekend we do manage to go out and he takes me to a Japanese restaurant. I like my food spicier but it's probably better than Mexican for purposes of decorum later. I stare unabashedly at his body on several occasions and he smiles shyly. He explains that he is an engineering student and hopes to soon end his days of greeting people and typing up useless memos. I understand completely, I say. I am too in school to escape my current life. He looks directly at my mouth when I am talking. When I can resist no more and touch his thigh, he takes my hand to pull me toward him. I hear a deep sigh in his chest as he kisses me. There is a lot of passion there. We should leave now, I say.

His couches are blood red and fuzzy and I am sliding slowly, headlong across one them, enjoying the softness against my skin and wondering how many other women's juices I am lying in. He lifts me with one arm and slides a blanket under me. I am embarrassed at how much this simple show of strength excites me. I want him to hold me down and take me. I stretch my ass upward toward his face. I hear him groan as he presses his nose and mouth to my panties. I stretch my front half down over the end of the couch as he pulls down my panties and licks my cunt. I almost come when he sticks his finger inside me and kisses my ass. No one has ever kissed me there.

My reaction must be a strong one, because he flips me over to make sure I'm okay. I think he sees the inexperience in my expression. He watches me carefully as he strokes my clit again. My legs part and I feel the juices dripping from my pussy. I put his head to my breast so that he can suck my tits. I can't believe a guy knows how to work a girls' clit like that. I have grown too used to the fumbling of little boys, I think. Or maybe he is very talented.

I come, twice, I think, and beg him to fuck me. Not yet, he says. You're not ready. How many guys have you had? Two. No, three. He pulls us, blanket and all, onto the floor and we land so that he is on the bottom. I know I'm supposed to get on top but I don't know what to do up there, so I just stare at his cock. At least there’s something I know how to do. I grab it with one hand and his balls with the other and take in as much as I can of him. When I find my rhythm, he moans. It's the first sound he's made and it encourages me to take in more of him.

His body moves under me. When I come up for air, I start in on his balls and he grabs my hair and then my hands. Wait, he says, let's fuck first. I'm not ready so instead I take as much of his cock as I can manage. His back arches and makes a sound like he's in pain. Before he can come he jerks me up, first by the hair and then lifts my whole body above him.

I protest somewhat as he lowers me onto what feels like a spear. Oh, god. I can't take you, I say. Wait, he says, as he moves me around until I am comfortable. Strong hands lift me and lower me until I understand the rhythm. No, this feels too amazing. He smiles at me as he interlocks his fingers behind his head and watches me work and suffer and almost die of pleasure. None of those losers ever had you on top, he says. I don’t know. I think so. I don't remember, I say. I know I've never felt like this.

Then I come. As I come, I slip backward too far and am skewered by his cock but even this pain can't erase the pleasure. He sits up and puts me on my back and begins to pump me hard. Am I coming again? I don't know. I only know that when I can't take him anymore and try to escape, he finally comes. He buries his face into my shoulder so I can't see it. He uses my hair to muffle his groans. There is liquid everywhere. Everything is slippery and sticky and we roll onto a clean sheet and sleep and sleep. I can't remember the last time I slept this deeply.

I have scads to write in my diary or would if I could bring myself to do so. The papers I have to write for my psych classes are draining the lifeblood out of me. Write about a personal issue I haven't come to terms with. Which one? As I write about my fear of intimacy I stop now and then and let a feeling of warmth wash over me. He says 'oh god, oh god' when he comes. I have never smelled anyone like him before. Of course I have been hurt, I write, but no more than anyone else. Yet other people aren't afraid to love. Why am I?

While I am rummaging through the newspapers on a break from paper-writing I find a blurb about a man who shot his best friend for drinking his last beer. I am completely sympathetic to this and cut it out and post it on the refrigerator as a warning to two friends in particular. I conclude my paper by conceding that it is possible that I don't trust men very much and that I should perhaps address this in therapy.

My sister calls two hours before our next date. It's an emergency. Can I just watch the girls for a few hours. Of course. When he arrives, I am on the floor of the living room tickling two six-year olds. Just minutes before they had been having an earnest discussion about the physical appearance of the tooth fairy. I inform them that I personally know the lady in question and that they're both wrong. In response, they tackle me. He sits on the couch and cheers them on. When my sister arrives, they are on his lap, captivated by his blue eyes and easy manner. It annoys me that he's good with kids. I'm not sure why.

We are wrapped in and around each other and he is snoring. He always falls instantly and deeply asleep right afterward. I play with his white hair and wonder at his translucent skin. What color was your hair as a child, I ask when he wakes up. It couldn't have been blonder than white. Red, he says, and I laugh, imagining a pale little red-haired boy tearing apart his father's appliances to see how they work.

Two weeks after his old girlfriend starts phoning, I figure I have another month with him.  I chastise myself for not remembering that I am always the temp. He leaves one night after a particularly enraging call and I pull out every half-filled application in every corner of the house. They are all ready to mail when he returns the following afternoon. He looks different. It’s okay because I feel different. When we make love it feels the same, though. Almost. He doesn’t hide his face from me when he comes.

I heard you say you loved me as I dropped off last night, I say. Why did you say that? Because I love you, he answers. It takes longer than I intended to quell the panic but his expression doesn't change. It's not a marriage proposal, Marilyn. I enjoy you. Is that okay? Yes, I say breathlessly to get him to shut up. I guess I need to practice loving someone back anyway, I say.  I'll practice with you, okay? Okay. 

© 2005 Kaye Heche. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio:  Who is Kaye Heche? Read her bio on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website.

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