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Jamie does a quick lap of the office while he waits, checks the windows are locked and the curtains pulled closed against the frosty evening and any prying eyes. He locks the door to the pantry, checks beneath the desk for bugs (that big baldy bastard leans on the desk in a very suspicious way, Jamie reckons, hip against the wood, knuckles white… creepy perving spud-headed cockwart…) but finds nothing. He has a quick check of the shelves too, just in case. Malcolm always calls him an idiot when he checks, but Jamie knows a lot more about spying than the big fucker, he watches films and TV which Malcolm never slows down long enough to do, and clearly if some MI5 ponce was going to bug 10 Downing Street it’d be this office.
He doesn’t want those sneaky fuckers listening in on this, fuck you very much.
Malcolm is late, which is weird. Malcolm doesn’t do late, he shows up precisely when he means to, which suggests that he’s not going to show up tonight at all, and Jamie can’t meet him at his house because he’s flying home this weekend for his nephew’s birthday, and fuck it, Jamie is really, really fucking horny and why’d Malcolm choose tonight to fucking stand him up?
He punches the antique desk in case it helps. It doesn’t. Just as he’s considering which expensive piece of office equipment to manhandle out of the window in an effort to vent his frustration, the door opens. Jamie whips round, hands already at his throat tugging open his tie, feet taking him across the room…
It’s not Malcolm. Jamie stops, trying to think up some excuse for why he’s in Malcolm’s office with a hard-on the size of HMS Vanguard and his tie half-undone.
“Err,” he says.
“Jamie.” Sam’s all matter-of-fact, a half-smile on her face, her handbag over her shoulder, as if she’s heading home, but she doesn’t have her coat with her. “Malcolm’s stuck in his meeting with the Prime Minister.”
“Oh.”
“So he won’t be able to make his appointment with you.”
“Ah,” he says, scowling. The fucking Prime Minister is more important than him all of a sudden? Bugger that backwards with a fucking tire iron…
“So,” says Sam, putting her handbag down on a chair near the door, “he’s asked me to fill in for him.” She smirks girlishly at what Jamie later realises is quite a bad pun.
“Um,” he says, glancing at the door. “I don’t think… I mean, it was a quite specific issue between me and him that we were-“
“Jamie. Shut up.” Sam turns briefly to lock the office door. Jamie finds, to his surprise, that he has indeed shut up. And that he’s locked in Malcolm’s office with Sam, an unrelenting stiffy, and a whole row of shelves un-checked for bugs.
“Sometimes,” Sam continues, her voice even and practical as she takes off her suit jacket, “Malcolm slips into my purview some tasks of frankly questionable taste, but this one, I am going to enjoy.”
“Fucking what.” Jamie’s gawping. His brain is sprinting to catch up with what the fuck is happening, but it’s not the boss of him right now. The part of him that is in charge is threatening to cause some damage to the one pair of expensive tailored trousers he owns and wears especially to drive Malcolm to despair on days such as these.
Sam folds her jacket very neatly over the back of the chair her bag is sitting on, then positively slinks across the room and slides her hands up Jamie’s chest, her short, neat nails catching his nipples through his shirt and making his mouth hang open helplessly.
“I don’t-“ Jamie begins, glancing at the locked door, but Sam takes his face in her hands and kisses him firmly.
“I’m under instructions,” she says, and Jamie feels ashamed that she’s having to use the tone of voice she reserves for the idiots she has to spell out Malcolm’s thought processes to every day. “You’re not in trouble. I’m doing this for him. In fact-“ she pulls her personal iPhone out of her trouser pocket and places it on the desk. “He wants me to get this on camera. For while you’re away.”
“Ah,” says Jamie, as Sam locks eyes with him and flicks open the first few buttons of her blouse. He’s accidentally erased the entire sub-cortex of his brain that’s responsible for his vocabulary. “…Fuck.” He’s got that word backed up, though.
“You can touch me,” Sam says.
Jamie isn’t so fucking sure about that. He remembers the one boyfriend Sam ever introduced to Malcolm, he remembers driving the young man to A&E, and he’s acutely aware of the fact that he hasn’t been seen since.
“Relax. He wouldn’t ask me to if I didn’t want to, and he wants - honestly – listen, if you like. This might help.”
She picks up her phone, taps the screen a couple of times, and then hands it to Jamie, who puts it to his ear. Malcolm’s voice is suddenly speaking to him, and his cock twitches in an embarrassing Pavlovian response.
“Sam, listen, I’m stuck in this fuck-awful meeting with the boss and I’m not sure who I’m going to stab first, him or me. I need you to do a small something for me, and the small thing I need you to do is called Jamie. Poor bastard has a seizure if he doesn’t ejaculate every six hours, and it’s my fucking turn to – take that thing I got you last Christmas, yeah? There’s lube in the bottom drawer. He thinks the office is bugged but it fucking isn’t so get it all on your phone and email it to me. Love and fucks to you both, byeeee.”
Jamie stares at the phone, then at Sam, and then grins.
“Awesome.”
She kisses him again, pressing her whole body up against him, and it’s been too fucking long since he had tits mooshed against his chest. He’d forgotten the fluttering feeling that tingles in his guts when it comes to tits. He runs his hands down her back, over her hips, up again, and she breaks the kiss, tilts back while keeping her hips pressed against his, and unpins her hair from its neat bun. Jamie’s hands go for her breasts as if he’s fourteen and touching some for the first time, which makes her laugh. She swats his hands away and unbuttons the rest of her blouse, peeling it off and dropping it (neatly, somehow) on the desk.
“Hang on,” she says. She picks up the phone again, looks Jamie up-and-down, peers critically at the desk, and then decides the phone needs to go there. Its neat black cover props it up, and she sets it to video record. Jamie stares at the screen, then remembers Malcolm will be playing this back and bares his teeth in a grin.
Sam’s back, kissing him again, quick and hard with tongue and then teeth tugging his lip, and her hand is suddenly on his cock through his trousers and he moans, frustrated and confused and very, very fucking turned on. He has a go at unhooking her bra, but she takes his hands in hers and pins them to the desk either side of him as she slinks and wriggles and grinds against him. He struggles and gets one hand free, slips it between her legs and presses with his thumb – she huffs out a little breathy gasp, pushes herself against his hand, and oh Christ, he can feel exactly how into this she is through the fabric of her trousers. She knocks his hand away, pushes him back against the desk and half-mounts him, one knee on the desk, rubbing against him, her mouth on his neck and one hand – oh fuck – one hand untucking his shirt and sliding down the back of his trousers.
“Sam,” he manages the one syllable of her name, giving his brain time to assemble the rest of his question, “what did Malcolm give you for Christmas?”
She gives him the same wicked little grin he’s seen her give Malcolm when she’s the only person in on one of his schemes and some poor, unsuspecting bastard is about to amble cluelessly into his trap.
“Get the lube,” she says. “I’ll get my present.”
“Lube,” Jamie parrots. He knows where that is well enough – in the locked bottom drawer of Malcolm’s desk. Jamie is the only one with the key. He rummages through the selection of fake passports, the forged arrest warrants, and the little envelopes full of copied keys until he finds the pump-top bottle and a condom. The drawer is locked and double checked, even under these pressing circumstances, and he comes back around the desk again.
Sam grins, takes the condom, and flicks it away into the corner of the room. She’s holding something black and plastic in one hand, and takes the lube off Jamie with the other.
“Bend over,” she says, nodding towards the desk. “I don’t know about you but I can’t wait much longer.”
“No way,” says Jamie, “that is a dick on a harness. Malcolm gave you a dick on a harness.”
Sam’s busy slipping out of her trousers, which she folds neatly with her blouse, leaving her in simple but incredibly effective black bra and knickers.
“He said it’s to go with my massive balls.”
“Ha!” Jamie pauses with his own trousers half-way down. “Wait, you and Malc…?”
Sam shrugs, glances at the phone. “Is it a problem?”
Jamie’s mouth wants to say yes it fucking is a problem but his brain stops him and suggests that no, actually, perhaps it isn’t. But only because it’s Sam. Anyone else and he’d have to go and find Malcolm right now, he’d have to break into the PM’s office and fucking kill him with a desk lamp, but it is Sam, and… no. No, he genuinely isn’t angry about this.
“I suppose not.”
“Good. Now bend over, or we’ll both be in trouble.” She flashes her white teeth at the camera-phone. Jamie shudders, dropping trousers and underwear but unable to take his gaze from Sam as she steps out of her knickers and into the harness. She tightens the straps around her hips and her little gasp and shiver suggests there’s an internal part to it as well, which is good because he was wondering how…
“Jamie.” There’s a sternness to her voice that she’s learned over the years at Malcolm’s knee (or some part of his anatomy) and Jamie turns, bracing his hands against the desk. Sam placed the phone well, he can look right into it from here, and he’s sure Malcolm will get a very, very good view of the look that crosses his face as Sam slides lubed-up fingers over his arse. He tries to touch his cock, but Sam pins his hands to the desk again.
“Ready?”
“Fuck y – aah!”
She doesn’t wait for his answer before bumping him with the end of the dildo. He leans forward, almost face-down on the desk, legs spread for her as she grazes her nails teasingly over his arse-cheeks and rolls her hips gently, testing him out.
“Christ… Sam… just fucking do it. Malcolm would be balls-deep by now, I’m fine, please just…”
She doesn’t mess around, Sam, he knows that already. There’s the slick wetness of a bit more lube, then she’s holding onto his hips and bucking her own forward, fucking him onto the silicone dick. He drops his forehead to the desk and pushes back, wriggling, he can hear himself pleading and cursing, and she takes the hint – pulls him up a bit first, though, ever-conscious of their future audience – and thrusts.
The thing is thick and hard and perhaps not the same as a real cock but close e-fucking-nough for him, especially with Sam on the other end of it, whining and gasping as she grinds her hips against his arse. Her hands move all over him, up and under his shirt, over his chest, teasing a nipple, scratching across his shoulder blade, until they get into a rhythm. Then she winds the fingers of one hand into his hair, and takes his cock in hand with the other, and then – Jesus fucking Christ – she’s fucking him hard and fast, and if he angles his hips just so she nails him right on the fucking prostate and that’s it, he’s done, melting into the desk beneath her as she pumps him, come splattering the desk, though certainly not for the first time.
He lies there, cheek against wood, mind blown. A little whine of displeasure escapes his throat as she pulls out, and he’s about to lodge a complaint about her moving away from him, ever, because this was good and why’d it have to end, but then she’s unstrapping the harness, leaning back against the desk, and sliding her fingers between her legs.
He’s up off the desk in double time, dropping to his knees in front of her, and sliding his hands up her thighs, parting them.
“Can he see?”
Sam glances at her phone and nods. “Well enough. Jamie – fuck, please –“
He doesn’t need to be asked, he’s already drowning in the scent of her, pressing his mouth to her, working his tongue fast and firm and rhythmic against her clit as he presses two fingers into soft wet heat, and that’s all it takes to have her head thrown back, her spine arching, her heels scrabbling at his back and her hips stuttering frantically as he tries to stay with her all the way through it.
A few moments later, she slides down to the floor and sits next to him, back against the desk, and drops her head on his shoulder.
“I love my job,” she grins.
“You’re only saying that cause the camera’s still rolling.”
“Oh.” She reaches up for the phone and holds it in front of them both. “I hope that was a satisfactory performance,” she says, her expression suddenly, and hilariously, professional. Then she makes kissy-lips at the phone, while Jamie just grins inanely, and taps the screen to stop recording.
***
Fatty’s mouth is moving and there’s definitely sound coming out, but to Malcolm it all just sounds like warblegarbleblaaarghflaaarghfsstfgll, like fucking Welsh, he’s been talking for so fucking long he must have managed every combination of words in the English language and be repeating himself by now. It’s so bad that even fucking Julius has zoned out and is staring at the opposite wall, working his way on some kind of auto-pilot through a packet of mini jaffa cakes. Malcolm wishes he had some fucking jaffa cakes, something, anything to distract him from the quadruple-Dutch fucking nonsense seeping out of Fatty’s flapping face-hole.
But the boss is nodding along, brows knitted together, apparently focussed and occasionally saying “yes, of course” or “no, no, of course not” or “that’s something to consider”. Malcolm has the urge to stab him again, but he doesn’t have any kind of appropriate stabbing-shaped tools to hand, except maybe his keys in the pocket of his coat, which is hung on the stand in the corner. That’d mean getting up out of his seat, and the effort just isn’t worth it when he can alternatively knock himself unconscious just by repeatedly head-butting the desk. He’s working up the will to do just that when a gentle vibration against his chest signals a message to his personal phone, tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket. He apologises (nobody’s paying any attention anyway) and checks the message.
1 new email from [email protected], subject: JM meeting notes.
Malcolm swallows down a smirk and shifts in his seat, hooking one leg over the other. The upcoming weekend, with both Jamie and Sam out of town and this godawful meeting right here to digest, has just become a significantly less hideous prospect. It’s nice to have a little reminder now and then of just how much of a diabolical genius he is, and it’s even better when it’s a reminder he can wank to.