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.
