There was just no sense in this crap.
Here I was, sitting in the office for yet another late Friday night, and wondering how the hell I got shafted into finishing all of her freaking assignments. My boss was a royal jerk. She never did any of her filing, just passed it off on anyone she hated. Unfortunately, her current hate was directed at me.
It's not my fault that her hair dresser made her head look like a cheetah pelt, only my fault that she overheard me making the comparison in the cafeteria.
I was a just a junior typist, one of the legion to work in the boring brick government building, but that didn't mean I wasn't a person! And people had feelings, thoughts, made plans to go out on their Friday nights. Sitting on my ass staring at the two foot high stacks of filing slouching their way across my desk was not something I had included in my Friday night plan.
No, I thought sourly as I picked up the top green folder, the Friday night plan looked less like 'get stuck at work' and more like 'get you picked up and screwed.'
It was true. I'd had less than noble intentions for my weekend. I was boyfriend-less at the moment, (more like for the last six months) and as a healthy young woman, I needed to get laid before I finally went crazy. I had planned on hitting the shopping strip with a few girlfriends, having dinner, maybe passing the evening with a movie, then snagging a cab and riding uptown to slide into some ill-lit joint with throbbing bass and more than enough swinging dick to chose from.
But now, working my way steadily through the stacks faster than my incompetent boss suspected I could move - I was going to have to cut straight to trying to pick up some pocket pool stick and go home. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't normally the type to do a one-night stand, but it had been so very long since someone other than me took my needs in hand that I was getting more than a little desperate.
The depressing thought urged me to haste, and if I misfiled a few things, who cared? No one ever came down and looked through the files anyway. They always asked a junior typist like me to do it. I wouldn't forget where I put the files, so I would be able to find them later. Or, I could always fix it Monday. Yeah, fixing it all Monday sounded capital.
I pushed out of my chair, grabbing my purse from a drawer and my tote bag from the foot well of the desk, and I headed briskly from the office. It was only a few minutes walk to get to the women's locker room, and only a few minutes more for me to change into the outfit I had packed into the tote. I dropped my hair from its simple swirling knot on my crown and fluffed the rippling burgundy mass with my fingers. My sensible pumps were tossed in the bag, along with the demure khakis and button down blouse. I peeled off my panties and the 18-hour support bra that my chest demanded and grabbed my man-fishing implements.
First I took a small bottle of scented oils and spread them on my legs and arms, down my breasts and belly, to smooth over my very well trimmed and partially waxed mound. I liked to keep the hair to a decent minimum so that a bush didn't ruin my bikini lines. So, I kept a neat little area of pubic hair above my slit, but the rest was kept perfectly bare. As the saying goes, 'no grass grows on the playground,' right?
Next I reapplied deodorant, in case my morning application was faltering, and checked my nails to make sure they were all clean and filed and the polish was decent. Then I sprinkled on some micro glitter and eyeliner, with just one swipe of mascara. I was blessed with a clear complexion so I never bothered with base, and my natural coloration kept me from using blush or anything.
It was sadly true, I was a natural redhead, but the red of my hair was so wine dark that it was more like gleaming – near dead embers or a really rich red wine than it resembled the more common ginger or carrot colored locks of other redheads. I think the darkness of my hair allowed me to have the golden-bronze skin tone that looked so good without make up.
I looked into the floor to ceiling mirror in the locker room and inspected by body quickly. Three days a week at the gym kept me fit enough, and three more days a week at an aggressively taught dojo did the rest. I was built for curves, so no amount of exercising or dieting was going to change the flare of my hips or the size of my bust. I glared at the bust in the mirror. I had big boobs. Big. And I resented them. They were always in the way, and I always seemed to spill things on them, leading to embarrassing, eye catching stains. F was just an ungodly cup size for a mere mortal to carry.
Turning away from the huge-knockered reflection of my naked self, I slipped into a garter belt, sliding up the lacy-topped thigh highs and clasping them into place. Over that went a black mini skirt with slits up the side, embroidered with peacock blue feathers and flowers, trailing baroquely along the splits. Hidden sequins flashed among the pattern. And yes, I disdained panties. If I didn't have to wear them, I didn't. I liked the fresh little breeze you got when you wore a skirt without panties.
I pulled the halter-top on next, tying the knot to the bodice tight behind my neck. The crisscrossing swatches of fabric that comprised the front of the top held my breasts up through sheer determination, I think. And sheer was nearly the word. I could clearly make out my perky nipples through the paper-thin folds of dark blue silk.
Finally, I slipped my feet into a pair of gently heeled peep-toes with long straps that laced up over my calves to tie into trailing beribboned knots just below my knees. I checked my reflection once more in the mirror, smiling with a wry twist of my lips. I looked nice, better than nice. I looked dead sexy.
Okay then, I steeled myself, time to go man hunting. I stuffed the bag in my locker, clipped the little ring of keys and the flat clasped case that held some cab fare and my ID to the little belt loop on my skirt and jetted it out of there.
I strutted my way to through the parking garage, flashing a wide smile to the kid in the booth. He watched me with wide, greedy eyes, taking every detail. I twitched my hips a little extra, taking longer strides to show off the tops of my lacy thigh highs. Pretending I dropped something, I stopped and bent for it, from the waist. The skirt rode up, and up and up, exposing the bare curves of my wriggling ass and the barest hint of my naked slit. I straightened, smoothing the skirt, and tossed a glance over my shoulder. The boy was transfixed. I nearly skipped the rest of the way to my car, convinced that I would be the star of his sexual fantasies for many nights to come. Little exhibitionist stunts like that just made me feel so alive!
My car thrummed to life and I zipped on out of the parking structure, ending up at a local nightspot renowned for its dimly lit interior and plethora of alcoves where amorous young people could get sweaty in a fast little grope-fest.
The bouncer let me in the door, no cover charge, and when one of the girls waiting in line protested, he calmly informed her that when she grew up and had tits the size of Godzilla then she could skip line too. I glanced down at my too-ample cleavage in wonder. What do you know, I mused, the gi-normous funbags have some use after all.
I hit the bar and finagled a few free shots. Tequila, vodka, rum - men were lining up to get me tipsy, and the liquor would hopefully give me the courage to make good on the one-night stand I was hoping for. The dance floor was satisfyingly dim and crowded, the number of men actually topping that of the women. This was good, I decided. Less competition and more chances for me to nab a tasty treat to take home and enjoy.
One of the guys that had immediately homed in on me, a svelte thirty-something with moss green eyes and a smile that Crest would be jealous of danced with me exclusively. He was well built, broad in the shoulders and slender at the hips. It made me think he was a swimmer or a runner. He ignored a few other women that floated through, letting them dance on him, but not with him. His eyes remained on me, his lips quirked in a cocky, confident smirk that made me want to kiss him. He tugged me by the hand after only forty minutes or so of gyrating and ass shaking, pulling me away from the grooving throng.
We threaded our way to one of the aforementioned crannies, immediately locking onto each other in a frenzied need to know. The first kiss was not hesitant or soft; he crushed his lips to mine and gripped my upper arms to hold me there. I responded in kind, darting my tongue out to taste him, almost moaning with the wave of pure need this kiss was drawing from me. We continued to kiss; he was very good at it, as we started our blind exploration of one another. His hands rushed over my tits, choking on the fact that he could feel they were real. I ran my hands down his chest, lightly raking my nails over his nipples, and then slipped a hand down his front, investigating the rippled planes of his stomach and the sizable bulge in his pants. Hm, seven, maybe eight. Not bad. I could do this. I could definitely do this.
"My God," He broke the kiss and I looked up at him. He panted for air before continuing. "Don't you even want to know my name?" He had an accent, European of some flavor. I couldn't place it. I smiled up into those lovely moss green eyes.
