The Boss of You

The office has been abnormally quiet; neither of us willing to talk about what has happened. You go about your business and I go about mine. Each of us seem to be afraid to mention what happened the other day. Afraid of breaking the spell? Unsure that it had really happened? Embarrassed? Or delighting in the possibility of it happening again?

And it doesn't help that you've dressed provocatively again today. I can barely concentrate on the job at hand. Two clients calling, angry about back orders, a late payment, and a way-too-long call from corporate about my branch's numbers. Who cares? If they could see you walking around in the outer office, they'd understand that I'm not working too hard on meeting their unrealistic quotas. What man gives a shit about order fulfillment while a beautiful girl struts around in a short skirt twelve feet away?

I don't.

But all the same, if I'm going to keep this failing branch open—and you and I gainfully employed—I need to at least keep business rolling in. And that's going to mean filling those back orders. A little research on my desktop computer reveals that one of them might be a simple clerical error; it appears to be in stock. The part numbers are a dyslexic's nightmare; and they're no picnic even if you don't have issues with reading. Long alpha-numeric codes define every damned little widget in that cavernous, dusty warehouse. And those parts are shrink wrapped, bubble wrapped, carded, boxed, bagged, and packaged in just about every type of container known to man.

No wonder the two remaining warehouse guys can't fill an order. We kept the two least paid guys, not the most qualified. "Awesome foresight, you corporate dweebs." My irritation grows by the minute.

I stab at the intercom button for the warehouse and accidentally and unknowingly press the one for "All".

"Tom. Call the office. Tom, office."

I see your head pop up as my annoyed voice is loudly broadcast from the phone right in front of you and your hand go to your mouth as you try to suppress your amusement at my mistake.

And the phone sits silent, mocking me.

You turn around, and make a motion as of a person spooning food into their mouth. My annoyance increases as I realize that Tom is at lunch. Dammit, this means that I will have to deal with Jose. And just as I hit the button to page Jose—the correct button this time—I see Jose walking through the office past you with his lunchbox in his hand.

"Jose?" I call, "Can you double check a part number for me? I bet we really do have this in stock."

His dismissive answer is, "No comprende," and he is gone.

Dammit, I hate that guy. Everyone here knows he speaks English.

I'll find it myself. In an increasingly annoyed state, I rise, stride past you, and go into the warehouse. The heat is stifling in the still and darkened space. No wonder those two are pricks; they work in a furnace for eight hours a day. I hate coming back here.

Twelve minutes later, I'm soaked, dusty, and near lost. The part is not in the bin where our plan-o-gram says it should be. In fact, the bin isn't even where it should be.

A little bit of searching though, and I've laid hands on the parts. I took a lucky guess and surmised the right combination of jumbled characters and out of sheer luck, found the stupid items.

Back in the office, I dump them on your desk. "What the fuck is wrong back there? Those two seem to be making up their own methods of stocking three million dollars worth of parts."

Your eyes tell me that you don't like my tone. I've hurt you with my anger; it's not directed at you, but all the same, you're the one here feeling the brunt of it. "What?" I ask. I know damned well what. I just need to be mad right now and I can't help but spill over onto you.

"Why are you pissed at me?" you ask. "I'm not in charge of those guys. I never go back there."

I bristle at your defiance. I just need to be mad but you talking back to me has raised my irrational anger to a new level. But that's all I'm capable of. I can't speak harshly to you any more than I have. Before I can make myself angrier, I storm off and re-enter the convection oven of our storage facility. Since I had such luck finding the first item, maybe I'll do as well with the others.

Besides, I'm already dirty and sweaty.

But this time, I'm not lucky. I wander aimlessly, angry with myself for acting up towards you--pissed because I cannot find these damned parts. Dammit!

I lose focus. I'm standing at the far reaches of the space and I've lost track of time. This wasn't what I wanted for today, for my job, or for my life. Where are those fucking parts?

I hear the click of your heels on concrete, snapping me out of my stupor. I love the sound that high heels make as a lady walks with purpose and I wonder what you're doing back here, how to apologize, and how to turn around this dull, dumb day. The clicking gets louder; you move closer. Hesitant starts and stops indicate that you're searching for something.

"There you are..." you exclaim as you turn a corner and spy me at the long opposite end of the aisle of tall shelves.

And you walk towards me. For someone so calm and put together, I notice that there is a lot going on when you walk. Legs swinging, hair bouncing, hips rolling, legs flashing, breasts slightly jiggling and I'm briefly reminded of a fashion model on a runway but with worse lighting and far more brains. The trip down the aisle takes forever and all I can do is stand and watch. I feel my anger melting; here comes my lover of two days ago. You excite me in ways I cannot describe to you and desperately want to.

You stop mid-stride, ten feet away from me. There's a light sheen of sweat on you from your long exertion of wandering the warehouse looking for me.

"What is it?" I ask.

"I came to rescue you. You shouldn't be back here; it's too hot..." You stop abruptly when you see the look in my eyes. This connection we share is tangible, hanging on the air like the fruit of a forbidden tree.

We move silently to each other, meeting halfway. Our embrace is instant, hot, and frantic. We're both slick with sweat but the way we kiss is that of two lovers on a distant beach. My hands are all over you; yours on me. Your blouse is open as quickly as I can unbutton it, your bra is unsnapped and hanging open, my desperate hands grope your pert breasts. I feel your hands, gently easing down my zipper, reaching through the fly, and grabbing at me.

As you start to kneel, I catch you. "No, no time," I whisper.

Backing you against the nearest sturdy shelf, I reach below your skirt. Naughty girl, you've removed your panties. Or...were you without all day?

I hoist you easily into my arms, your legs wrap around my middle, and I thrust into you in one long stroke. I'm buried to the hilt and thrusting; our grunts and exertions fill the immediate space of the warehouse. Desperate for release, we heave and thrust like animals in the still and oppressive humidity. Our heated fuck is accelerated; without breaking our kiss, we again increase our pace.

I can feel you dripping off of me where we are joined. I am close. Your hard nipples bore into my chest like hot pebbles between our chests. My hands support your ass and the feeling of your muscles rippling as I thrust into you and drive you into the shelving unit is putting me closer to my own threshold.

Closer...

Faster...

Closer...

"Cum for me. Do it!" you seethe through your clenched teeth and your permission to flood you with my seed sets off the hair trigger within me. Below, I can feel you clutching and gripping me tighter as your own impending orgasm builds within you.

"This...is...it!" and with one final pistoning thrust I can hold it no longer. My spasm clenches my entire body into a hardened fist and I release into you. You claw at my back as your own orgasm crashes within you and we hang there, suspended in time like a broken clock that knows only one hour, until we both collapse to the floor, panting and trying to catch our breaths.

Beneath me you struggle to catch your breath. Looking down at you, something in my sight drags at my brain. A small recognition struggles to surface in the murky waters of recovery. And then I notice the box near your head and the bar codes and numbers on the label.

"Hey, thanks! That's the box of stuff I was looking for!" I exclaim and we collapse again, this time into a delicious laughing fit.