Monday --
The alarm went off at 7:00, pulling me through the fog of a non-specific dream to sun-drenched reality. I knew almost immediately that it was going to be a difficult day. A vibrating energy was growing in my crotch and rapidly spreading throughout my body, quickening my pulse and deepening my breath. Being this horny this early in the morning is never a good sign. As I slid my hand between my legs and moaned into my pillow, I contemplated skipping work. But the idea of calling in sick because of this damn craving made me feel like a junkie. I like to think myself a little more responsible than that. Or maybe I just wanted more than what my fingers and a few measly toys could provide.
I dragged myself to the shower. My knees buckled as the hot water poured over my body. Switching the faucet to cold did little good as I came hard with my head resting against the cold tile. Feeling, if not under control, at least a little cleaner about it, I brushed my teeth, got dressed, and headed out the door. Usually I would be hungry about now and I was, but breakfast never crossed my mind. As I pulled into rush hour traffic, the growling energy began to rise again. I slid my right hand between my legs, applying just enough pressure to release some of the tension, but not enough to make myself cum. I'll never make that mistake again. It's so difficult to explain to the police how you ran over four mailboxes and a lawn gnome without noticing. But that's another story.
When I arrived at work, I pulled down the visor and stared into the mirror. "Kat," I said to my reflection. "We like this job. We need this job. Keep it in your pants, lady!" It was a speech I'd given myself many times over the years. It never worked, but it did at least keep the cravings at bay for a while. There was a knock at the driver's side window, startling me. Kane stood there, scruffy and tired-looking as usual in his wrinkled tee-shirt and frayed blue jeans. He smiled in his boyishly charming way, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. It was the kind of face that made you want to pinch his cheeks and kiss his forehead.
"Talking to yourself this early in the morning is not a good sign, Kat," he shouted through the closed window.
"You have no idea," I said softly as I flipped the visor back up and got out of the car. To him I said, "What brings you out at this ungodly hour." Kane was a document scanner on the evening shift. I had worked side-by-side with him, laughing and joking the shift away until Hank, the owner of our company switched me to days two weeks ago. Recently we'd only seen each other in passing as I left and he came in.
"Something's going on in there," he said, nodding at the office building beside the parking lot. "Hank asked all of us to be here early this morning for a meeting. You hear anything?" He gave me that mischievous, crinkly-eyed smile and normally in this mood it would have taken a backhoe to keep me from fucking him right there in the parking lot, but he had me worried. I stared at the building as if waiting for it to fill in the blanks.
Usually I am the go-to girl for information. I'm not a snoop or even nosy... not really, anyway. Information just has a way of finding its way to my ears, usually in the form of a venting member of management. I have an honest face, what can I say? As I said, Hank had switched me to days, but he gave me little explanation other than the dismissively sarcastic ones that he gave to pretty much every question he didn't want to answer. Since then, there had been a lot of closed doors and a tension thick enough to swim through and my well of information had dried up. I shook my head slowly in response to Kane's question.
"No worries," he said in his annoyingly optimistic way. "I'm sure whatever it is, we'll find out at the meeting." Kane and I walked into the office together to find a dozen or so other evening shift people milling about the time clock, all looking sleepy and confused, while the day people sat at their computers, wondering whether or not to start working. There were none of the usual jokes and gossip, only the buzzing chatter of the nervous.
All was silent as the front door opened and the three members of management walked in. First came Sledge, the evening supervisor, walking with a beaten puppy posture that he wore every time he was around anyone who outranked him. Then Aspen, the site manager looking, as always, sullen and morose and hot in a creepy sort of way. And then Hank bounded into the room with the energy of a much younger man. His tie was askew and it looked as if he hadn't shaved in days. "Why does everyone look so serious," he asked, smiling. He then went on to talk enthusiastically about how the office would be moving down the street. He asked the evening shift to work during the day for the week to help with the move as the new office closed at five and for the day shift to work twice as hard to make up for the work that wouldn't be getting done at night. He talked for nearly half an hour, answering questions, trying to calm anxieties, but I could tell from the way he shifted from one foot to the other that he wasn't telling us the whole story.
By the time he was done talking, most of the workers seemed satisfied with his answers, if not happy with their meanings. By lunch time, peer pressure seemed to be working positively and all the other doubters went on about their daily routines. Even I was swept into the sense of calm despite the nagging feeling that something was wrong. As usual, I sat at the desk nearest Aspen's office and typed information from medical claims while I kept my ears open to everything around me. By 2:00, Aspen and Hank as well as all of the evening shift people had disappeared to the office down the street and all of the moving noise of the morning and early afternoon faded to relative silence. I was left with only the tapping of ten keyboards and the humming of seven scanners.
Now no one else seems to understand this, but I find the sound of typing to be extremely erotic. Think about it for a second, all those fingers working so swiftly, so smoothly. And the experienced typist or keyboardist has no need to hesitate, to search for exactly the right position. Those fingers have minds of their own, knowing exactly what it takes to get the job done. The potential for what those fingers can do to a human body... as far as turn-ons go, watching someone type is second in my book only to watching hands create music or art. Maybe it's just me?
Anyway, that's where my head was, envying keyboards the fingers playing with them and that horribly wonderful, wonderfully horrible energy began to rise up again, drowning out worries of Hank's announcement, drowning out logic and any conscious thought of my job. There was just me and those hundred racing fingers steadily pounding away. I was contemplating putting my keyboard in my lap just to feel the vibration of my own fingers when the program I was using suddenly shut down and an error message popped up on my monitor. I sat there for a minute, staring at the screen as if it had betrayed me. "Sledge," I called. Across the room, Sledge's head popped up from his own monitor. "I need you," I said sweetly.
Bob Sledge stood and sauntered across the room. The beaten puppy posture was gone and he held himself up as high as his five foot eight inch frame would carry him. He was an incredibly arrogant little weasel of a man, but I liked him. He said pretty much whatever came into his head and acted like a big tough guy, but his fear of Aspen made this image he tried to create almost humorous. When we were alone together, he was so sweet, almost oily slick in a way that made me want to swallow him whole.
Sledge walked up to my left side, dangerously close. He put one hand on the back of my chair and leaned the other on the desk so that his head was lowered to the same level as mine. I could almost feel him, his face just inches away. The smell of his cologne was intoxicating and when he spoke, "What's up, sweetie," that deep voice felt like liquid heat running down my neck.