I was leaning forward, whispering, trying my best to hide my tears from the rest of the room.
"Sarah," he sighed, and then in a conspiratorial tone he explained, "Drug highs are like climbing a roller coaster..."
Kip had made his voice overly serious, like a TV announcer, and was moving his hand, palm down across the table, but then, letting it climb steeply away from the surface, he made like his palm was scaling a bell curve.
"...the highs are super fun, but they gobble up dopamine or endorphins or... whatever."
"Science," I sniffed.
"Just so," he agreed. "Anyway, those artificial highs are inevitably followed by a crash," he said, swooping his hand down past the table's edge as if it were going to crash to the floor. "You are crashing. You were already fragile, this is a stressful week,
obviously,
and let's face it, kiddo, you tilt a
little
dark."
"I don't tilt dark!" I said gesturing at myself with a tear-soaked tissue.
"Sarah..." he said patiently.
"A little," I conceded, pouting and thinking about the cruel way my mind works at times. "But just a tilt!"
"Just a tilt," Kip agreed.
After lunch, I slipped into the women's room at the south end of the bullpen. It was always empty. I checked my eyes, they weren't bad. I'd wept, but I hadn't cried-cried. I was flush and my cheeks were rosy. I couldn't go back to work like this. I stared at myself for a long time, knowing what I was going to do, but trying to deny myself. I failed.
I slipped into the last stall and unzipped my skirt. Hanging it on the back of the door, I pushed my panties down to my knees and examined the stretched crotch. The silky gusset was soaked, smeared, and glossy with cum. Talking about Stephanie - even in abstraction - had upset me, but it had also worked me up.
I thought of Claire keeping a stash of fresh panties at work. I might need to take a page from her book.
I didn't want to think about Stephanie, so I pictured Claire instead. She was dressed the way she had been the other night, in her tight jeans and ratty t-shirt. But that night she had been all warmth and comfort, maternal and loving. I wanted to imagine her in a very different mood.
I pictured her unsmiling and haughty, the way she had made herself for me the morning she dressed me in office s/m drag. I imagined her scolding and berating me and finally lunging at me. Me in my little nightie, spinning around to avoid her, trying to get away but getting caught by the hair, Claire jerking me back and down.
I was standing in the stall, bare-assed, legs shaking, one hand against the stainless steel door for support, my other hand working between my legs, fingers making wet smearing sounds. My back was arched and my hips rolled back, making my ass stick out.
Wanton.
I imagined Claire throwing me to the floor, fighting her off as hard as I could but in my imagination, she was too fast and strong, easily pinning me.
That image was enough. The orgasm prematurely swamped my fantasy, ending it.
But it was Stephanie's mouth I saw poised over mine as I came, saliva hanging from her lips. God almighty, how many times had I cum to that image over the years?
I was left weak kneed and panting and disgusted with myself.
'Fuck, why?' I wondered, remembering Kip's hand swooshing down off the table. My post-orgasm thoughts crashed into darkness.
I had been dizzy after Stephanie pinned me. The cloying sweet licorice taste of her spit filled my mouth. It's hard for me to think about that mix of shock and humiliation, without recalling all the other feelings that went along with it. At that moment on the floor, it was all too much. I remember feeling frozen by it, unable to think, too afraid of my own thoughts.
Stephanie, meanwhile, had just left me on the floor, discarded, like her shirt and jeans which she had stripped off and dropped carelessly on her way to the bathroom as she walked away from me. One more discarded thing. I might have stayed that way all night, catatonic, but she had left the bathroom door ajar, and the slash of her piss in the pot roused me. She was almost done. I didn't want her to come out and find me still on the floor.
With weak arms I lifted myself off the carpet and on unsteady legs I crossed to my bedroom; not bothering to shut my door. It was hot and Stephanie had come home alone, but that wasn't why. I was simply beyond care. I stumbled into my bedroom and dropped into the shadows, landing on my bed hard enough to bounce. I didn't get under my covers or arrange myself. I lay still, wishing I could be more still, that I didn't have to move my lungs, that I could stop myself from breathing.
I was overheated and had no hope of sleeping. That particular oblivion felt
very
far away.
I had left the living room and kitchen lights on. I looked away from the glare, staring instead into the darkest of my room, seeking comfort in the inky nothingness and listening to Stephanie finish up in the bathroom. I didn't look up or even shift as her shadow crossed over me on her way to the kitchen. Her movements sounded... angry. Her bare feet pounded the floor and cabinets banged. She was mumbling to herself in German. Lights went out and she walked past my door again. I listened to her swearing under her breath. Her bedroom door was still locked and she had trouble getting it open.
Finally, I was left alone in the dark. I still didn't move. And I couldn't help listening with special interest through the thin wall separating us - my mind, as always, trying to picture her. She was moving around restlessly, probably stripping out of her underwear, or maybe putting things away, or maybe just pacing? Was she upset? Did she regret what she had done? Would she apologize?
No part of me believed she ever would.
Whatever it was that kept her moving around, she finished it. I heard her climb into bed and settle down.
Although separated by a wall, we lay just inches apart. I could still taste the Jägermeister she had been drinking. My whole body felt too full of blood. My nerves buzzed and pulsed. I was radiating a sticky heat. There was no relief in sweating. My pores felt clogged and dirty. My core was on fire. I could feel myself getting hotter rather than cooling down. My thoughts were a wine-addled confusion.
What had happened? What was going on?
I hated myself. Hated my body. Hated how soft and needy I was. Hated how much I wanted Stephanie to make some noise, some sort of sign... of what? I didn't know. I just wanted her... to do, or regret, or want, or act... I hated myself for wanting. I wanted so much. My whole body ached and vibrated with need.
My sleep clothes were still in disarray, twisted around me and binding uncomfortably. My left boob was pulled up and bound tightly by my little cami, my right boob was entirely exposed. My boy shorts were hiked over my hips, one ass cheek hanging out. The crotch was wedged like a rope in the crease of my pussy and ass.
Without really deciding to, I started pulling at my sleep clothes. I had chosen them because they were revealing. I wanted Stephanie and her boyfriend... or date... or fuck... whatever, to see me that way. I had been showing off for her and she had spit in my mouth.
She hated me.
And I knew why, my cowardice and habits of easy submission. She was right. Timid, anxious, doubting - I was pathetic and weak.
'And vain!' I thought, tugging at my sleepwear. I had wanted her to be excited, knowing I was listening. I had imagined she was conspiring with me, like Rebekah, that we were experimenting...
The thin stretchy fabric clung to me. I was filmed with sweat, radiating a moist viscid heat. Raising my hips off the mattress, I struggled to peel the little shorts down off my ass. I had soaked the crotch through. I had been so scared when Stephanie attacked me I thought I might piss myself, but this wasn't pee. Silvery threads of thin mucus trailed and smeared the insides of my thighs as I squirmed and rolled the damp little trunks down my legs. They were twisted and unrecognizable by the time I kicked them off, sending them arching into the darkness. Holding my knees apart, I dropped back down to the bed and bounced off the mattress again. In one smooth movement, I sat up. Twisting to get my top off as fast as I could. I felt my breasts swing and bounce as I fought to free my hair. I threw the damp top into the unknown to join my shorts.
All of these movements were immoderate and forceful enough to make the little bed's frame creak and knock against the wall. I was drunk and angry and carelessly telegraphing my every move, my need.
Keeping my legs apart I stretched back out. I ran my hands over the fronts of my thighs, the bowl of my belly, and the cage of my ribs, until I was cupping the undersides of my breasts. They felt big and firm, more than filling my hands. My palms slid easily over my sweat-slicked skin. I was so sweaty my hands were pushing the moisture into drops that trickled down my sides. It felt good to touch my breast. I was proud of them. I knew they were beautiful, that other women coveted them. I wanted to believe Stephanie coveted them, that she wished she had big boobs like me. I was fingering my nipples, they were swollen and ached in a way that felt wonderful.
I didn't want to feel wonderful. I wanted to feel the opposite of wonderful.
