Note: Whilst Gwendolyn refers to Whittaker as her uncle, they are not blood relatives. This is all part of the game to them. Both are well above legal age.
The room was stifling hot, a fire that had lain dormant all day, was now purring contentedly in the grate and the heat made the smoke curling from Whittaker’s cigar hang thickly in the air. He was facing the window, his back to her, watching the late evening lovers take the air.
“Did you have a pleasant evening?” He didn’t turn around.
Gwendolyn took off her jacket and shoes. “Quite.”
“Did he try anything?”
She laughed and made her way through his tightly-packed office to the window, whose ledge was just wide enough for her to perch on.
“He was a gentleman – he was the gentleman he was paid to be.” Here she reached forward and took the cigar from his hand. She took a long drag and when he took it off her, blew languid smoke rings into the air, kicking her feet into his thigh. He caught one and held it as he smoked, her toes contained in his fist.
“You’re drunk.” he said after a while.
Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. “I’m not drunk. I had one brandy, ration measurements. Certainly not enough to get a girl blotto.” Enunciating the words, she could feel her skin becoming damp with warmth, but she knew better than to ask if he would open a window for her. After all, he was still smart in his regalia, jacket buttoned to the throat, even as sweat formed on his brow. He watched her press a hand to the windowpane and then slide the hand into the neck of her blouse.
“He went to great pains to make me aware how much he both loathes and admires you, of course. Clearly under the impression my only duty was to report back on his suitability for promotion?”
“And your decision?”
His cigar smoked down to the stub, Whittaker tossed the end in the ashtray and took hold of Gwendolyn’s other foot.
“I’m sure he has his uses. Thinks himself the ladykiller, perhaps he has a calling in the WAAF. Do all your subordinates feel the same way?”
“Only the ones so convinced of their own importance.” he tickled the underside and she squirmed.
Now he stood, still with each foot in his hand, heel resting in his palm. She rolled her eyes again, far more theatrically this time, and tilted her head back against the glass.
“Don’t be a pest.” But this was only for show, only part of the duet. She thought for a moment. “It was more difficult than I’d thought it would be, referring to you as uncle, keeping up the pretence. I’m afraid I almost slipped more than once.” Her cunt twitched, imagining the glorious punishments she may have experienced if she had been indiscreet.
“Where would the fun be in that?”
She felt his hands travelling up the length of her legs, from her ankles, to her calves. He stroked the underside of her knees, the crease that was always ticklish and prickled in the heat, and upwards again until her stocking tops gave way to pure flesh and the promise of her knickers under the butterfly’s wing of her slip.
“Cooper doesn’t believe you know what fun is. He thinks you’re a marble pillar. Cold and unfeeling.”
“You’re wearing it.” Whittaker responded, no longer bothered by his snivelling counterpart’s opinions.
“Of course I’m wearing it. I know how much the thought of it underneath my dress, how you’ve been so close to it but unable to touch it – has driven you to distraction all day.”
It was true. She’d been sat, coolly nonchalant in her skirt and blouse, at the foot of his office, typing reports at a respectable wpm and chewing her upper lip when she got stuck. They were facing one another, more or less – her desk was set in the corner of his office. Secretaries generally sat in separate rooms as it seemed to quell insubordination, but the family rule and Whittaker’s standing allowed him to more or less do as he pleased and that included having a small desk stationed in his office so he could keep her out of trouble.
He could see her knees in the shadows. If the day was hot she came back from her half hour lunch time walk without her stockings. Then her knees would appear very white against the darkness. He could lean over her desk under the pretence of checking her work and stroke the bare skin and make her smirk.
Emboldened by this thought, he leant forward and kissed her. His lips were dry, and tasted of vanilla tobacco and whisky. Gwendolyn put her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, feeling him through the heavy woollen material of his trousers. The sweat on his forehead dripped down onto her cheek and when he pulled back, she licked it away, her tongue tracing the corners of her greedy, childish smile.
“Did you miss me? Did you miss me?” She sang, staring into his eyes, daring him to break his sullen, sturdy character. “Did you think of me, letting Cooper having his way. Letting him stare at me? Letting him touch me?” She felt his fingers grip her waist more tightly, more painfully.
“I didn’t.” She agreed. “He would have had me in a fucking heartbeat though. Wouldn’t he?”
She felt his cock jump as the curse left her lips.
“Don’t use that word. Don’t speak like that.”
“I’m sorry, uncle. But he would, wouldn’t he?”
“Is he definitely gone?”
“With his tail between his legs. I watched him leave. Keeping my hands off him was… A trial.” She held his lapels tightly in her fingers, his thick, rigid cock almost pinned against her despite the layers of coarse material between them.
The proximity of their bodies only served to make the heat of the room so much more acute, but still she didn’t ask for reprieve. The scent of smoke and sweat and eau de cologne and her own perfume filled the room until they became the spell that spurred him on. He grabbed her under the armpits and lifted her, toes trailing over the carpet to the fireside.