Henry flicked the light switch by the door and a slow grin crept across his lips. She was waiting for him. Wordlessly, he walked to her and ran his hand over her cool curves as she stood motionless in the dim studio. 'You're perfect,' he whispered; his hot breath on her slender frame. His eyes fixed on her, he rounded her and slapped her behind with his palm. The sharp sound echoed through the room and she yielded slightly with the force, moving closer to the glass desk. A deep, languid laugh rose in his throat as he walked to the desk and sat down, his eyes drinking her in as she stood stock-still in front of him - just as he liked it. He could control her; do with her as he wanted...but not tonight. Tonight he had more pressing matters, and she would wait.
Coldly, he stood and left, not losing pace as he switched the lights off and left the studio. The heavy doors sighed closed behind him and he smiled. She would be still be there later.
'Good evening, Mr Beige!' Terry beamed as he watched him breeze through the security doors. He received no reply. 'Miserable bastard,' he muttered to his weary colleague behind the reception desk as Henry vanished down the steps outside the building.
'Aye. You'd think with all that money he'd be happy as a pig in the proverbial.' Chris sighed, not lifting his eyes from his newspaper.
'What was he doing here anyway?' Terry pondered. 'He's not due in 'til Monday.'
Chris finally looked up and gazed at Terry from beneath his bushy eyebrows. 'The man's a workaholic. Whereas we'd grab a day off and handcuff it, he sits at home thinking of reasons to come in. Each to their own, I suppose.' He shook his head and returned to the sports pages.
'Hasn't he got a bird?'
'Yeah,' Chris chuckled. 'But women don't earn you money!'
Holding a copy of The Daily Telegraph over his thinning hair, he marched down the path with his linen jacket flapping behind him like a flappy thing that flaps a lot. His highly polished, Chelsea-boot clad feet clacking on the wet tarmac, Henry Beige scowled at the leaden sky as he ducked into the car park and unlocked his bloody enormous black Range Rover. His skin tingled as the soft, buff leather of the driver's seat creaked under his corduroy-wrapped thighs. Rain pattered on the roof and the automatic wipers - with chrome bits on them - kicked in as he guided his BOFmobile onto the main drag. His heart thumped heavily in his chest, gaining pace as he imagined the scene waiting for him when he got home. While the other half was away having her hair done or playing polo or having Botox in her bum or whatever it was she was doing, this cat was going to play.
Holding a copy of The Daily Telegraph over his thinning hair, he marched down the path with his linen jacket flapping behind him like a flappy thing that flaps a lot. His highly polished, Chelsea-boot clad feet clacking on the wet tarmac, Henry Beige scowled at the leaden sky as he ducked into the car park and unlocked his bloody enormous black Range Rover. His skin tingled as the soft, buff leather of the driver's seat creaked under his corduroy-wrapped thighs. Rain pattered on the roof and the automatic wipers - with chrome bits on them - kicked in as he guided his BOFmobile onto the main drag. His heart thumped heavily in his chest, gaining pace as he imagined the scene waiting for him when he got home. While the other half was away having her hair done or playing polo or having Botox in her bum or whatever it was she was doing, this cat was going to play.
The automatic garage door - with chrome bits on it - opened and he drove through and parked. With a cursory glance he made sure it was closing behind him as he unlocked the heavy oak door that led to the hallway. Once inside, he clapped the lights on and stood in the arch that led to the kitchen. Warm light from the under-unit LEDs bounced off the chrome sink and draining board. The chrome toaster shone, reflecting the glint in Henry's eyes. The kettle - also chrome - glowed...as did the chrome coffee machine, the chrome juicer, the chrome sandwich toaster, the chrome percolator, the chrome fruit bowl, the chrome tea caddy and the chrome tea towels. Hold on...no. The tea towels weren't chrome; that would be silly. But Henry liked chrome. That, essentially, is what I'm trying to convey here.
Undoing his tie - which didn't have chrome on it - he padded into the kitchen. Beads of sweat prickled his forehead as anticipation built in his body, heightening all his senses. She sat on the work surface, beckoning him. Even he couldn't resist her. Henry; the man who liked to command. His fingers trembled as he reached out to her, her skin glistening as he embraced her naked softness. 'I've been waiting for this all day,' he almost growled. His passion grew as she hovered for a moment near his lips; teasing him, pushing him into realms of desire that no man could escape from. She was a temptress...but he was Henry Beige. He would not let her take the reins.
He grasped her firmly; her flesh tender and warm in his hands. 'Don't try to dominate me,' he hissed. 'You're mine. I'm going to destroy you.' Forcefully, he lifted her to his mouth.
Finally, he was satisfied. He turned his back and walked out, slumping onto the black leather sofa in his study and sighing contentedly before leaning towards the mahogany table and pouring himself a brandy. He could still taste her on his lips and fingers. He sipped at his brandy and suddenly remembered the vision of delight that was doubtlessly still waiting for him back in the studio. If he drank the brandy, he couldn't return tonight. He weighed up his options. No - she wouldn't go anywhere. Besides, he might get indigestion if he went out now. That was the best plate of belly pork his maid had ever prepared. And, as alluring as his studio paramour was, it's not as if an Autocue had anywhere else to go.
He belched and switched the TV on. The Antiques Roadshow. Splendid.
