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.
What my eyes light upon next doesn't help my predicament any. The whole right side of her body is visible outside the breadth of the towel's coverage area. I can see the sideswell of her tit, the womanly curve of her hip as it tapers all the way down and becomes her leg. The skin looks smooth and dark, and there are no tan lines to be seen, not even in the spot where her panties naturally come across her hip. Gallantly I resist the urge to lay my hand on it, though I can imagine how my thumb would fit into the little groove where her leg meets her pelvis, how it'd feel before I'd run the hand around to give her ass cheek a squeeze.
My penis is shifting around again, and I have to turn my attention back to the shower before the thing gives me away. I examine the new fixture, finding a little slide and working it so that the water courses down, ducking out of the way to avoid the spray as she thanks me, closing the door with her modesty still mostly intact.
For a while I remain productive, charting on the children and wrapping up the various and sundry items in my little 'to do' reminder book. Before long I hear the bathroom door open and she comes into the office, drying her hair and smiling. A tight white t-shirt and a gray knee-length skirt constructed of some heavy fabric have replaced the warm-ups. The shirt is plastered to her, as if she's neglected to dry herself properly. It shows off her shoulders, and the shadows of what looks to be a sports bra when she turns her back to me to pull something out of the hygiene cabinet. She seems strangely at ease, and though I know it's ridiculous, in that moment I find myself frustrated almost to the point of tears that I'm forced to put up with women constantly walking around with clothing covering up their nudity.
"I had to dry myself with a rag," she tells me.
It doesn't occur to me to ask her why she hadn't utilized the cursed blue towel. Already her words have my brain working busily to call up images of three or four rags running over all the inches of her skin, absorbing one drop after another from off her glistening body.
"That was so hot. I feel like I should say thank you, or tip you or something."
It comes out of me before I realize what I'm saying. She laughs, telling me she'd thought I'd turned off the water at the main just to mess with her. Frankly, it sounds like something I'd do.
"I was hoping you were calling for me to come and help you wash," I admit.
"No, but I could go back and dry off again if you like."
"By all means," I say. "Happy to be of assistance. Any time you need..."
Sadly, she merely smiles as she continues to dry her hair.
"I notice you didn't have any tan lines," I say, frantic to keep the conversation going, unwilling to let the wondrous moment fade gradually into the past.
"I haven't really done any tanning yet," she tells me, misunderstanding and thinking I'm criticizing her.
"No no, you look dark."
