Act III: Showering
It's unusual for her to show up early on a Thursday, but I can hear the low rumble of her faux hotrod coming up the gravel drive. She's generally punctual, but not compulsively so. When she comes into the office, she's still dressed in her workout clothes -- blue vinyl warm-ups that cover the vast majority of her skin. I prefer when she shows up in her customary tight blouses and the sexy-but-not-slutty skirts, sauntering in after an abbreviated night out on the town to work the third shift, concerns for comfort supplanted by concerns for allure.
At least she could have had the decency to leave the warm-ups in the car I think to myself, knowing that underneath more clingy, Spandextrous fabric rules the day. The thought makes me curse my luck as of late, and I press my legs together unconsciously so that my thighs put pressure on my cock. I'm barely able to say hello before the phone rings, sidetracking me from all my self-pity. It's our boss; he wants me to help him brainstorm in order to fill in the gaps on staffs' electronic time cards.
As we talk, she pulls out a change of clothes. It distracts me momentarily, but the more intimate garments -- the feminine lace and hoists -- are swaddled safely inside more impersonal attire. When she mouths that she's going to take a quick shower, gesturing down the hall from the office, I lose my train of thought entirely. The shower thing explains why she's early.
I cover the mouthpiece and tell her to let me know if she needs any help washing her back. Or even her front for that matter. I laugh when I say it, but the joke falls flat and awkward between us, both of us knowing that I couldn't possibly be more serious. Mercifully, she chooses to laugh along rather than calling me out for my lecherous tendencies.
As she gathers her things and heads for the bathroom, I get back to my conversation, going over the schedules and feeding the boss the times he needs to ensure that everyone gets paid. So far, there doesn't seem to be any discrepancies.
Until we get to her.
She's missing a punch, and he wants to know if she's available. I tell him to hold on a minute, thinking I can still catch her before she's in the shower as I move across the house, hoping all the while that I'll find her in the buff. When I get to the bathroom door, the water's off. I hesitate a moment before softly knocking.
"Yes?" she calls out from behind the door, as if sensing some mischief on the air.
"Sorry," I say, "but the Boss wants to talk to you about one of your punches. Are you already in?"
"No," she says, telling me to give her a second.
Although I know a gentleman would simply leave the phone on the washer by the door, I just can't bring myself to do it.
After a moment she cracks the door and peeks her head around, her arm showing naked to the shoulder, causing the blood to rush to my face, as well as to certain points south of my beltline.
The hand comes out to take the phone from me, but the sight of that shoulder and the knowledge that she's already topless at the very least has me momentarily paralyzed. I find myself growing dizzy as she swings the door open a little further in order to grab it.
In her haste to take the call, she's got a blue towel clutched to her chest so that it hangs down in front of her vertically, rather than taking the time to wrap it around herself properly. The positioning of the towel causes her considerable tits to flatten slightly, threatening to spill over the top of it like a couple of overripe water balloons. The analogy makes me think of the time when I was a boy and a babysitter turned out all of the lights and let me and my best friend Phil Moriarty squeeze balloons filled with warm water and a mishmash of condiments she'd found in the fridge, tricking us into believing we were feeling her burgeoning breasts.
I take it all in in an instant before the door swings back, mostly shielding her. I can't make out what she's saying. The blood's in my ears now too, pounding. But not all of it. A small current of the stuff continues to course its way south, causing my cock to lengthen in my pants, snaking down the leg to rest against my thigh.
Had I been thinking straight, I might have thought to return to the office in hopes of her making the trek back clad only in that towel once the confusion regarding her time had been sorted out, the hard muscles of her bare ass flexing and rebounding. But the long rectangle of light between the door and the jamb pulls at me, drawing me in like the proverbial moth to a flame. And so I stay put, watching for the blue towel and flashes of skin, feeling self-conscious but making up excuses on the fly to stay in the vicinity. I throw the cleaning rags into the washer, reaching way back behind the machine, ostensibly to retrieve a rogue sock I spot on the floor, but actually in an effort to improve my angle of view. I'm too worried about being caught though, and can't make out more than fleeting glimpses of a bared arm or leg.
All too soon it sounds as if the conversation is wrapping up. I'm a little envious of the fact that my boss has gotten to hold a conversation with her while she's in her birthday suit, though I've little doubt he'd readily swap places with me had he been aware of what was happening. I take a small step back to wait for the door to come open again. I know it looks bad, but it's as if I've become bogged down in quicksand or perhaps a tar pit. I'm powerless over the desire to see more of her body.
"Sorry about that," I say, taking the phone as the door swings open again. It takes a concerted effort to maintain eye contact and ignore her tits bounding out over the top of the improvised terrycloth tube top. They seem to beckon at me to take another gander.
"That's okay," she says with a laugh, recognizing instantly how hot and bothered the situation has me.
I grab my dick through my pants and give it a squeeze as the door closes and I make my way back to the office. It seems I'll never get through a Thursday night with my virtue intact. I'm finding that I have to take matters 'in hand' more and more often these days, not coincidentally coinciding, I'm sure, with the days we work together.
Back in the office, I let go of myself reluctantly and grab hold of a cigarette instead, thinking it'll have to make do, hoping it'll calm my nerves some as I step outside, keeping the door open so I can listen for any trouble.
I don't have long to wait. I've barely gotten the cigarette lit before I hear her call out.
"Briiiiaaaan!!!" she yells. I can't tell if it's a sound of panic or one of annoyance, but I drop the cigarette and make my way quickly back to the bathroom. My dick is hoping she's taking us up on our offer to help her wash, but I push the ludicrous thought from both our heads.
The door's cracked open again, even more than before. She's showing her head and shoulders all the way to the swell of her breasts.
"There's no water," she tells me, looking at me suspiciously as she opens the door wide, as if somehow I'm to blame for the drought.
I'm stumped for a moment by the implied accusation. Truly I'm not cunning enough to think to turn the water off. Had I been, I'd have waited until she was already wet and slippery with soap before making my move.
She steps aside to allow me to pass. As I enter, I try to put on my most professional face, the kind employed by the professional do-gooders of the world, the EMT's who make it a point not to notice that the twenty year old coed with alcohol poisoning is buck naked and built like a brick shithouse -- all shaved snatch and quivering bosom down beneath the watery sheen of vomit.
I try both the hot and cold dials. There's nothing, though I can hear water pouring into the washing machine not six feet away. I look for a shutoff valve, but the bathroom's been recently refurbished and there isn't one, or rather there isn't one that can be readily seen. What I can readily see is her standing there, the towel still held precariously in front of her. Her clothes are heaped on the floor, and I take the opportunity to sneak a quick peek, hoping to spot her underwear. But I'm too frazzled by the whole situation, and find myself looking away before I can pick them out.
