Part 3 Single Person Ecstasy
Chapter 5. Unrequited Passion
I've never knowingly simply fucked a woman. I want to make love to her, to share mutual pleasures, and have a relationship that has the potential to grow.
It wasn't like that with Sylvia in the early days. I always felt that she was holding back. Her apparent inability to have orgasms coupled with her desire to give pleasure, left me feeling guilty of taking without giving in return. The fact that she would not explain why she could not be fulfilled compounded my difficulties. It was clear that she wanted a relationship of sorts with me even though it wasn't transparent between us.
It would have been simpler to refuse all further sexual contact, and find another woman with whom I could immerse myself in a meaningful relationship. The reason that I didn't was because Sylvia's body excited me, and she clearly wanted me. I no longer cared about her face. I even found it attractive at times, when she was relaxed away from the office, or aroused.
~*~*~
Sylvia didn't mention that encounter in the darkened office the following day or after. Nor did I. I was conscious of the risk of her raising a grievance against me and accusing me of improper conduct or worse. Such cases were rife in the 1980s.
My ex-wife had twisted facts to gain an advantage in our divorce, which had left me suspicious of women. I had not forgotten Sylvia's early animosity towards me when I first took up the post of Team Leader. I feared that her currently compliant attitude might change on a whim.
I had many sleepless nights, fantasising about sexual encounters with her in a variety of settings, each more improbable than the last. Sometimes, they would result in a happy conclusion, readily accomplished now that I lived as a single parent and slept alone. Other times, my mind would work overtime analysing Sylvia's apparently conflicting motives. She had an axe to grind about my 'undeserved' team, leadership, and about male chauvinists in general; yet she flirted with me at inopportune moments. She wasn't a typical feminist of the times.
Making another pass at her could spell professional suicide, or worse, a criminal record. Yet once we had made that initial breakthrough, she frequently teased me at work. It might be implied in a few chosen words, or a look, or a shift of her shoulders, but always it was a reminder of the potential power she could hold over me.
If I let her.
I encouraged her to use John more so that there was less scope for an escalation of the teasing. But I was becoming more susceptible, with Ellie's departure, my prolonged celibacy, and other short-lasting relationships outside the office.
Then one day, I received information of an investigation into a recent construction project. Sylvia was allocated the audit. She announced that she needed to consult some papers in the organisation's archive store. It was located in a former mower garage and workshop in a park on the edge of town. She asked me if I would go with her. John gave her a sharp glance, presuming that it should be his role, not mine.
She explained, "Simon will need to sign off on our investigation, so it would be simpler and time-saving if we examined the documents together."
I saw the logic in that, but my mind immediately leapt to potential pitfalls of erotic possibilities along the way. Sylvia's body language was alluring and I hadn't seen any sexual action in some time.
We had discussed meeting up at her flat, or my place. But she had an elderly neighbour who spied on all comings and goings. She suspected that Alfie had courted the woman as a spy. I lived at that time next door to a farm smallholder in an isolated location in the countryside. He was our self-elected neighbourhood watch scheme; and frankly, an utter busy-body.
I also had the care of William to consider. That ruled out evenings and half the weekends. So extra-curricular activities during the working day provided the most feasible scope for play. I had resisted them, up to this point.
~*~*~
The refurbished former motor mower garage was large, and spotless inside. It had two, large green wooden garage doors. It was neatly laid out inside with several rows of high racking stacked with boxes of files.
"Where exactly is the box?" I enquired.
Sylvia pointed to some wall shelves fixed above a long worktop.
"Don't worry, I'll get it down," she insisted.
That offer took me by surprise, even though she often sought to demonstrate her ability to cope without male assistance.
She was wearing her customary tight, below the knee skirt and striped blouse. I could not envisage her managing to raise a leg sufficiently to step onto a chair, yet alone clamber up onto that worktop.
I decided to stand my ground chivalrously. "That's not a job for a woman when there's a man around to do it."
That was the wrong approach to seek agreement.
She squared up to me, pushing out her compelling bust in its off-putting blouse. "I'm the equal of any man for such things. Why am I always battling against male prejudice?" That last comment was of course, rhetorical, and debatable, but the last thing I wanted was an accusation of male chauvinism. We both knew anyway that I was right. I swallowed any further objections. On her hips be it.
It was her choice to do it, despite the obvious, unavoidable compromise to the integrity of her clothing.
She positioned a chair in line with the box location and attempted to step up onto it. As expected, she couldn't raise a leg high enough, because of the constriction of her tight skirt.
"Here, let me..." I volunteered again.
She gave me a threatening look. The concept of female empowerment hadn't yet gained much traction in employment practices, but male chauvinism was frequently levelled at men seeking to act like gentlemen. Equally, though, women who flirted sometimes later accused male colleagues of sexual harassment for overstepping the mark in response. I was about to understand how a female who tested the boundaries could place a man in a no-win situation, even when her motive was far from equality.
She hitched up her skirt, which took some ungainly hip-twisting and limb manoeuvring, then clambered up onto the chair and from there onto the worktop. The bending of her hips had forced the hem of her skirt almost up to her waist. But upon reaching there she made no attempt to pull down her skirt again. And I was getting my first glimpse of a real-life thong on a lady's bottom.
