An angry rain was falling in sheets, relentlessly banging on the glass skylight that Jason was mindlessly staring out of. Streaks of water were skimming across its pane as the wind howled. Spring had arrived, but just barely. It was cold outside. April in Minnesota. A shiver went through him.
Jason purposefully situated his desk under the opening in the ceiling so he could escape the monotony of boring taupe walls, grey cubicles, and the constant humming and bustling that made up the floor he worked on — humming printers, ringing phones and pecks of keystrokes. The skylight, however small, was a wonderful mental respite for him — something that allowed his mind to escape from time to time.
Jason's floor was home to his organization's marketing and communications team. Forty people in all — mostly 30-something women who wore skirts and dresses like in the show Mad Men, but without the modesty. Together they executed the communication, crisis response and marketing efforts for one of the state's largest educational institutions. And specifically, as the sharp end of the stick when it came to crisis management, the people on the team also knew most of the dirty secrets in the organization, and they had an affinity for talking about it. It was a perfect marriage of work and gossip, and those who worked there were predisposed to enjoy such drama.
So in that regard, the office and this curtain of rain-soaked light also provided an escape from the people and their gossip. Men and women — they all participated. Who was dating whom? Why was Jason's office door closed? Who's the new woman downstairs in accounting? Did Sandra get a boob-job? Is Stacy fucking her boss? Is Mike fucking his secretary?
"If they only knew," he often thought to himself, snapping a glance at the closed blinds that kept prying eyes of the sometimes-chaotic outside work space from peering into his office. A smile crossed his lips. Jason liked the gossip, too.
The pecking order at the office was simple. Jason, a vice president, is in charge of communications. Think press releases, newsletters, and photography and video — that was his domain. Katie, his uptight colleague, is also a vice president — she leads the marketing team. Brochures and pamphlets and events at campus buildings were her happy-place. Jack, meanwhile, is the executive director of it all. The rest of the team is made tacticians and secretaries — the worker bees who did the tasks Jason and the others dreamed up. Forty staff. Ten men. Beautiful women. Endless daydreaming.
The fourth floor, it turns out, is the penthouse of the office building. Jason, Katie and Jack each have fancy corner offices. And while there are plenty of windows lining the walls, Jason preferred watching the world pass by from that skylight on the roof. Comfortably leaned back in his office chair, his spine melting into the fabric of its back, his feet propped up on a side table — daydreaming to his heart's contentment.
Today, it turns out, in spite of the downpour outside, Jason wasn't thinking about the weather. He was fantasizing about Chelsea and her sheer, black thigh-highs. The ones he caught a glimpse of in the elevator earlier in the morning. Her black pencil skirt was riding a little higher than she realized as she thumbed through the stack files in her arm. To his delight, he could make out the seductive, lacy top of her stockings and the garter clip fixed to the top.
It was just the two of them in the sterile, steel elevator. It smelled like grease, and it was a bit humid inside thanks to the deluge outside. He barely noticed all of that, though. A flash in his mind's eye of her skirt hiked up over her hips while she stood in front of him tore into his thoughts. He could almost feel his stiff cock easily sliding into her tight, wet pussy, as his mind created the image. Jason gently shook his head, erotic cobwebs falling away, as he came back to reality.
Chelsea's white, button-up blouse wasn't intentionally revealing, but as Jason slyly looked up and down the length of her body, he spied a tantalizing amount of cleavage as her C-cup breasts were spilling out of a light blue, lace bra, just visible because the top two buttons of her blouse were undone.
He quietly took in a deep, cleansing breath as his cock stirred in his black dress pants. He wanted to make conversation, but choked on the words.
As Chelsea continued to sift through 20-or-so manila folders in her arm, her curvy five-foot-eight body stood atop a pair of black, open-toed, four-inch high heels. Her stocking-clad toenails peeking out the front. Chelsea's sandy blonde hair was up in a cute ponytail, but a strand had fallen out near the top and was now draped lightly across her face. She was pretty, with just enough eyeshadow to make her hazel eyes pop.
Suddenly the elevator bucked to stop and Chelsea looked up, almost startled. They were both lost in their own thoughts. But when the elevator lurchsed, their eyes met. Jason suddenly felt as though he'd been caught with his hand in a cookie jar. He was undressing her with his mind, after all, and he felt like she knew it. She sheepishly bit her bottom lip, looked down, and with her free hand, tugged her skirt back down a couple inches, hiding the lace.
As she looked back up, Chelsea flashed a smile, which Jason returned. She then glided out of the elevator. Jason watched. The red bottoms of her heels flashed with each step, her skirt clinging to her legs as she walked — its slit, which ran down its center-back offering a better glimpse of her long, sexy legs with each stride.
Jason was hard as a Goddamned rock.
Just as the heavy metal doors were closing, Chelsea turned on a dime to face the elevator, her pony tail whipping as she spun. Her eyes again met Jason's. This time she flashed him a wink as the doors closed. Just like that, she was gone.
"Holy fuck," Jason mumbled to himself, now alone in the elevator, feeling utterly dumbstruck. Thigh high stockings — they were his thing, his instant turn-on, like they are for plenty of men. Chelsea's high-waisted pencil skirt — the way it hugged her hips and accentuated her curves — was also his thing. The white blouse, light blue lace bra, open-toed, black heels — it's like she knew the exact outfit that would fill every nook and cranny in his mind's eye of sexual fantasy. Her outfit — it wasn't inappropriate or slutty. And that's what made it so hot, he thought.
And the wink? "What the hell was that about?" Jason thought to himself as the elevator again lurched to a halt and opened at his floor. He shook his head in disbelief. His stiff cock still pressing against his dress pants. "Jesus Christ," he thought to himself as he walked to his office.
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As the elevator doors slid shut, Chelsea let out a deep breath. She felt as though she had been holding it in since she saw Jason in the elevator. She had more or less been thinking of that kind of moment for the past few weeks. A lust-filled moment in time. A smile crossed her face, and she turned away from the elevator and headed back toward her work area.
As she did, she passed Vicki, the grey-haired department secretary. Vicki was sitting on a stool, not a desk chair, and her cubicle had a half-wall she sat behind. On top of the half-wall was a six-inch wide shelf with business cards, a few brochures, and a service bell. A large sign that read "Accounting" hung from the shelf. The stool allowed Vicki to sit higher so she could watch everyone coming out of the elevator, and, importantly, to judge people as they came to her to be whisked away to appointments or meetings within the department. She was the queen gossip hound.
As Chelsea approached, Vicki was giving her the kind of side-eye and resting bitch face combo people only read about.
"Got a button undone there, darlin'," Vicki said, bobbing her head in the general direction of Chelsea's chest, clearly pointing out what she deemed to be its inappropriateness. Vicki's lips were smacking with each chomp of the massive piece of gum in her mouth.
Chelsea looked down, took note of her shirt buttons, and shrugged. "Well look at that," she said, looking back up to Vicki. "Cleavage. Can't have that, now, can we?" She flashed a fake smile and walked past.
"Nut-job," Cheslea said under her breath when out of earshot. She entered a wide hallway between cubicles, and after passing three, turned left into her space. It was a painfully boring grey cube, which was buttressed on one side by an even more boring taupe wall. She slid into her chair, feathered her skirt under her as she did, and crossed her legs. She loved the feeling of her silky, stocking-clad legs rubbing together. She was never one to wear pantyhose, much less stockings, so the texture and visual of it made her feel sexy. Extremely sexy, actually, which was the goal, after all — to feel sexy and look sexy, too.
Chelsea sighed and a wave rushed over her as the excitement of the elevator began to wear off. She stared into her computer screen, more or less looking through it, and revisited the past 10 minutes in her mind.
