The Innocent Read online

  Title Page

  THE INNOCENT

  by

  JOHN ARGUS

  Publisher Information

  The Innocent first published in 2002 by

  Chimera Publishing Ltd

  PO Box 152

  Waterlooville

  Hants

  PO8 9FS

  Digital edition converted and published by

  Andrews UK Limited 2010

  www.andrewsuk.com

  This novel is fiction – in real life practice safe sex

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright © John Argus

  The right of John Argus to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Chimera (kī-mîr'ə, kĭ-) a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy

  Introduction

  Utterly bewildered by events – so monumental to her – and his ever-changing demeanour towards her, poor Zoe did not know what to do or say for the best, so she nodded uncertainly, and was desperately happy to see a small smile of relief lift his stern expression, just a little.

  Steven Erasmus helped her off the desk, his hands easily cupping her bottom, and lowered her into his capacious chair. He settled her there for a moment, stroking her silky hair from her flushed and slightly perspiring brow, her arms still imprisoned by her own blazer, then, her wide and mesmerised eyes following their every move, his fingers went to the front of his tented trousers and unbuttoned them…

  Chapter One

  The excitement level of Normand Miller’s life had taken a decided upturn during the previous two weeks, an upturn which had unexpectedly made his otherwise dull existence just a little bit more interesting.

  Normand was a forty-eight-year-old career civil servant. He had lost most of his hair, and his waist was twice the size it had been when he was half his present age. Still, he was thinner than his wife, and that thought consoled him greatly.

  Normand was a trusted clerk who had spent thirty years in the civil service, and whose duty it was to maintain a supply of forms and documents that might be required by members of the Prime Minister’s office. As a civil servant, he was something of an outsider. The PMO was filled with arrogant party apparatchiks who knew, without question, that they were the nation’s elite, the power behind the throne, and the brains behind everything the government did. Except, of course, when something went wrong; then it was the civil service’s fault.

  This particular section of the PMO was located on the seventh and eighth floors of the Churchill Building, a mouldering pile of stones that ought to have been torn down during the Victorian era, but which was now considered, at least by those not required to spend any great amount of time there, a cherished part of Britain’s glorious heritage and therefore immune from the wrecking ball.

  The Churchill consisted of enormous offices floored in marble and lined with mahogany beneath forty-foot high ceilings. There were also small, windowless, closet-sized offices with cheap carpeting and plasterboard walls. The Churchill had been repeatedly renovated and had served numerous functions over the years. Its only consistency of purpose was that it was always in some way connected with His or Her Majesty’s government.

  Much political manoeuvring went into the assignment of space, and whenever one of the more desired offices came open, Normand had the distinct pleasure of watching the finest of English blue bloods claw, and snarl, and snap at each other like jackals over a carcass.

  Normand, of course, had no office. His small desk – circa nineteen forty-one pinewood, complete with drawers that shrieked like the tortured dead whenever they were opened – was located in a small, open section of floor. He was surrounded by steel shelving containing rank after rank of forms and documents needed by those who actually mattered. There were a few other ugly tables set about, along with the odd desk or two, which was occasionally filled with this or that temporary hire.

  Normand was a little man no one paid the least bit of attention to except on the occasion they wanted this or that document, or wanted to know what form was needed to accomplish whatever minor chore one of the petty elites had been tasked with.

  Aside from Normand, seventy-one people worked on the seventh floor, all of them political appointees dressed in expensive and stylish business suits and dresses. All of the office-holders were people to whom Normand’s salary would represent a minor part of their yearly clothing allowance. Even their assistants and aides were sons and daughters of the powerful and wealthy and looked upon Normand, when they looked upon him at all, with amused and arrogant disdain.

  The business of the seventh floor was ‘economic diversification’, meaning it was concerned with encouraging economic growth in areas of the nation with high unemployment rates. What this really meant, of course, was that the seventh floor was one of the government’s main patronage outlets. The people there had considerable power and influence in the party, which in turn meant they had paid their dues over a number of years.

  Normand found his job quite dissatisfying, but had not the strength of will to look elsewhere. Here he had been assigned, and like a good civil servant, here was where he would remain until the civil service desired his presence elsewhere, or until he retired, whichever came first. And so he attempted to make do as best he could. He had no window, so he positioned his desk as close to the end of the corridor as possible in order to watch the comings and goings of the glittering party people. Occasionally he saw quite interesting things, things no one seemed to care he knew. After all, he was only a dull, powerless, virtually unnoticeable clerk.

  There was, for example, Allison Parker, the blonde program officer with the ivory skin and noticeably large breasts. She worked for Spencer Neilson, an arrogant fop of a manager, and the two seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time inside his office with the door closed.

  And there was Veronica Beacher, the tall, striking administration manager with the sharp tongue and biting comments. Ms Beacher looked upon the world with a suspicious and disapproving glower. If she ever said anything remotely nice to him, Normand would cringe and quickly turn around to look for the sharp knife heading for his back.

  And then there was Steven Erasmus.

  There was something decidedly cold and nasty about Steven Erasmus.

  He was the director of Special Processing, a sly, swaggering, supercilious man who, so far as Normand could tell, had done nothing much with his life except spend from the obscene amounts of money his more capable ancestors had managed to accumulate. Normand had long noticed the flushed faces of young women who emerged from Erasmus’s office and dearly wished he could see what transpired behind that particular closed and polished door.

  And there were others of similar ilk – schemers, indolent puffed-up egotists, back-stabbers, sycophants and the occasional mistress rewarded for services rendered, and still being rendered, behind other closed and polished doors.

  And then Zoe Quincanon arrived.

  Zoe was a bright, glittering jewel unmarred by the thick coating of odious upper-crust slime that filled the seventh floor. She was a sweet girl, fresh-faced, innocent and charming; deliciously and beautifully arousing.
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  Normand acknowledged he was probably a bit of a pervert to look at young Zoe the way he did, to think the things he did about her, to lust after a girl who could have been one of his daughter’s friends. But his life was extremely tedious, and looking at beautiful young women was one of the few pleasures he had left, and he failed to see how it did anyone any harm.

  And by a stroke of immense fortune, Zoe had been situated in his dull little out-of-the-way corner of the floor, just ahead of his own desk and slightly off to the left. This gave him a lovely view of Zoe without her or anyone else noticing. He could merely raise his eyes, flit them off to the left, and there she was filling his world with bright young feminine charm.

  Unlike most young women today, Zoe had let her beautiful auburn hair grow long and lush so it hung almost to her waist. It was parted over her forehead to slide deliciously around the sides of her lovely face, perfectly enfolding and framing high cheekbones, a small, slightly upturned nose, and the most astonishing eyes Normand had ever seen. Enormous, they were, and of the softest, palest green. He had to catch himself sometimes to keep from staring at those eyes – to keep from falling into them. They gave her a look of waif-like innocence that was not entirely out of character with what he had thus far been able to determine about her personality. She was an intelligent young woman of twenty, very earnest, very determined to improve the world, and very sure she had the answers to everything. She was young, and her view of the world was astonishingly yet refreshingly naïve, even by the minimal standards Normand expected of the young. Not that this mattered; she had not been hired for her political acumen, but because her father was a major contributor to the party and wanted something for his little girl to do during the summer – something which would give her work experience and look good on her curriculum vitae.

  Her third day at work had been a warm one, and the musty old building’s struggling air-conditioning had done a poor job compensating for the heat outside. As always, Zoe was sharply dressed. She wore a knee length dark-blue skirt and a matching blazer. Beneath the blazer was a white silk blouse. Due to the heat, she had removed the blazer, and Normand quickly realised the blouse had no sleeves.

  And this blouse, and the gorgeous girl wearing it, had given him an uncomfortably insistent erection. It was thin enough that whenever she was facing in his direction he could see her nipples perfectly outlined at the peak of two youthfully firm and perfect breasts. But even better was that the armholes were quite large, so when she leaned over, as she often did at her desk, and put her arms forward, the opening nearest him exposed the side of her creamy white orb. Normand was in exactly the right position to look straight through the obliging gap into unparalleled beauty – the unmarred perfection of her pert young bosom. Usually he snatched only a brief glimpse, but occasionally he could savour longer and more rewarding vistas. Twice he saw her slightly upturned pink nipple glowing in the light passing through her blouse.

  She was so innocent and yet so desirable, a slender young lady with a lithe body, firm and athletic, but with soft, full breasts and a deliciously rounded bottom… and she was wearing a short skirt today – a very short skirt.

  She was not an especially tall girl. Normand was five-foot-eight, and he guessed Zoe to be three inches shorter than him. But it would not do to give John Quincanon’s little girl a small desk, so hers was unhelpfully wide, forcing her to stand up and bend over it as she reached for something, and what a breathtaking sight that was for Normand. Every time she was properly positioned, stretching, his eyes darted up, quickly scanned his surroundings to make sure no one was watching, and then zoomed in on that tight, round bottom. The first time she had bent and strained forward his eyes were caught by the beauty of her cupcake buttocks, and then, as she leaned over even further, he had watched her skirt’s hemline slide higher up her slender thighs until he caught a tantalising glimpse of white panties hiding beneath.

  Her thighs, like her breasts, were perfectly shaped, her flesh wonderfully textured; unblemished, flawless flesh that cried out to be touched, licked, and adored. Normand could imagine sliding his hand in beneath that raised and straining skirt and stroking those downy inner thighs; could imagine the sheer emotional joy of such an experience.

  And when she leaned forward, her hips pressing against the edge of the desk as she stood on tiptoe to reach for a pile of papers, or a file, or the stapler, Normand imagined her body beneath that skirt naked before him, positioning herself so he could take her from behind. He groaned softly, his cock yet again growing disturbingly erect beneath his desk, within the confines of his trousers, and imagined thrusting into her again and again until she cried out in ecstasy.

  He knew he was going to add to his store of fantasies about Zoe that night, and a few of them played out quickly behind his eyes right then and there…

  Her legs spread even wider for balance, and Normand moved around his desk and shuffled behind her. He leaned over beside her, his hand slipping up between her legs to cup her sex.

  ‘Oh!’ she gasped, her eyes widening as she turned to look at him, her lovely pouting lips slightly parted, her light breath sweet and fresh.

  ‘Perhaps I can help you, Zoe,’ he purred, his fingers massaging her pussy through her thin white panties.

  ‘Oh…’ she sighed. ‘Oh, you shouldn’t do that, Mr Miller…’

  ‘I know, but you’re too beautiful to resist,’ he murmured as her bottom rolled helplessly against his straining groin.

  ‘Someone will see,’ she protested breathlessly, her hair spilling forward and partly hiding her lovely flushed face.

  ‘Nobody can see us here,’ he assured her, holding her down by gripping one of her wrists with his free hand.

  ‘Oh please… oh!’ There was alarm in her eyes, but pleasure as well, and he held her more firmly.

  ‘I’d like to take you right here, Zoe, you hot, beautiful little slut,’ he hissed in her ear.

  She shuddered and attempted to straighten up, but he pressed a hand against her back and she settled meekly on the desk. He looked around, saw the high shelves blocking them, and with a slow, smooth motion pulled her skirt up to expose her panty-clad bottom. He tugged the soft white cotton impatiently down her legs, revealing her creamy-white buttocks, which felt softer than he could ever have imagined as he ran his hands over them. He let his eyes and his fingers ravish her softly furred sex, and then forced her thighs even wider. She was gasping and panting now, her legs spread and held perfectly straight, her bottom raised, and he could feel the warm heat of her sex as he unzipped his trousers and placed his cock against it.

  He leaned into her, clamping a hand over her mouth as he slowly drove his erection into her delicious body. Her eyes widened as he thrust his cock deep into her moist depths, and she climaxed against him almost as soon as he began thrusting.

  He reached down and gripped the hem of her blouse, rolling it upwards and pulling it off over her head. He dropped it behind him and snapped her bra open with assured deftness, all the time continuing to thrust powerfully into her as she moaned with pleasure, filling his hands with her glorious breasts, the silky delight of her soft skin almost making him come as well. Yet he held back manfully, his hairy groin slapping against her trembling bottom cheeks as his cock pierced her clinging sex.

  She was helpless beneath him, a victim of her own lust and the strength of his masterful need. She begged him to stop, and in the same instant raised her buttocks higher and parted her legs further. He drilled his erection even deeper into her silky pussy, and she cried out in elation, ‘Oh yes, Mr Miller… yes…’

  Zoe straightened up, a frown on her face as she glanced around. Then she looked towards Normand, who quickly averted his eyes the instant her head began turning his way. ‘Um, they’ve given me the wrong file again,’ she said hesitantly, her voice a musically sweet lilt.

  ‘Half of them have no idea what th
ey’re doing at any given time,’ he commented gruffly, surreptitiously trying to ease the swollen ache in his trousers by adjusting his position a little.

  She smiled at him, and he squeezed his thighs around his erection. ‘And the other half?’ she asked angelically.

  ‘They’re quite sure of what they’re doing,’ he said. ‘Those are the ones you have to watch out for because most of them are quite wrong.’

  She nodded, seemingly amused. Then she picked up the papers, walked around the waist-high row of bookcases fronting their desks, and up the wide, marble floor of the corridor towards the office of Steven Erasmus.

  Normand thought bitterly about the impossibility of anything ever happening between him and Zoe, and then allowed a few more fantasies to play out as he watched her walk away… he would take her home and keep her in the back room of the small cellar, so his wife wouldn’t find out. He would keep her prisoner, but a willing prisoner, making her climax wildly every time he snuck down to see her…

  He sighed and returned to his paperwork, his erection slowly subsiding.

  As she walked, Zoe was blissfully unaware of Normand’s eyes glued to her gently swaying bottom, nor had she any idea that wherever she bent over – whether it was on the tube, at a small coffee shop or at a news kiosk – men’s eyes were drawn up her shapely legs to the hem of her skirt as they moaned inwardly, imagining the feminine beauty that remained hidden to their hungry eyes. She wore short tight skirts because she had begun watching an American television show where all the professional women dressed in short skirts and form-fitting blouses. Zoe very much wanted to be in fashion, so she had gone out and purchased what she thought were the right clothes to wear to work. It did not occur to her that men like Normand Miller would find the sight of her in a short skirt sexually appealing. After all, she had often worn shorts as a girl, and the skirt actually covered slightly more of her legs than those shorts had. She was aware that men found her attractive, but she was more than a little uncertain about the nature of male desire and fantasy.