Welcome once more, mes amies, to Smokeyville—your comfy little cubby hole for tasty Sapphic sexual torment and heartwarming romance. You're looking well. No, I did not lose control of my bladder; I'm just happy to see you.
We've just passed a few sort of "milestone" Smokey Sagas...I don't know why I'm saying "we," since I've always written and edited these on my own. But some of you've been "with" me a good couple years, and please don't think I haven't noticed. For a bit, I stopped doing intros. I don't know if they'll come with every story anymore. I also didn't think I needed to keep labeling or numbering them (but in case you're at all curious, you're about to read number 81). And depending on how many of my stories you've read, Beloved Reader, the erotic elements/arc in this story may seem familiar. What can I say; it's one of my favorite scenarios, italic period. You'll probably see it more in the future as well. There is a bit of a twist on it in this story, though. Enjoy.
ADDITIONAL CATEGORIES: BDSM, Reluctance
*****
Quinn Front O' Bars And On The Clock
Thursday, October 7th, 2010, 8:28 a.m.
Quinn threw her car into a vacant space, snatched her purse, slammed the door and raced up the steps to the building. Another exciting, Earth-shattering day of clerical duties awaited at the Klondike Industries Corporation—Juniper, MN branch—housed in the enormous complex of the same name. And Quinn was terribly desperate to be not a single second tardy.
She half-trotted and half-scampered into the suite, around the corners, and to the accounting department where her daily livelihood took place. She was 23 years old, full of energy and exuberance, and eager to please. She'd been taken on as an employee here a few months back, and vowed that Klondike would never regret it. She ran late today, hastening to her cubicle to log on.
"
'Kay...'kay, here we go...
" she muttered, bringing up her login screen. "
Q-Simmons at Klondi—...
"
She stopped uttering for a breath. She gave the system the necessary time to load, and was granted access. The clock read 8:30. She snatched the mouse and clicked before 8:31 dropped and made her late.
"Phew!" She rolled out her chair and plopped in with relief. She'd managed to never be late a single day, and didn't aim to start now. The company was reportedly lenient on tardiness, but Quinn didn't want to risk racking up any demerits, large or small. Others might've played fast and loose with their menial jobs, especially the clerical ones. But Quinn refused to take hers for granted. Or let it bother her should anyone call her the "boss' pet." Not that anybody did.
She
loved
her job. What was more, she
needed
her job. When they'd taken her on in early July, Quinn was ecstatic. While still living with her folks, financially she needed some income. And emotionally, she needed somewhere to get up and go each day, to help uphold her pride. The position had become part of her identity, of her autonomy, of her self. She got to come to a beautiful office, work with a couple dozen cool people, sit in her own cubicle, and listen to music while she carried out her duties. And if she lost this job, she couldn't believe she'd ever find another one as good.
For all her admirable qualities, Quinn Lucy Simmons harbored a deep, dark secret that no one at Klondike knew—except for Raven Bower, the woman who'd interviewed her, hired her and was now her boss. The secret was a source of great pain and shame for her and those closest to her, and she only hoped enough time would pad its jagged edge. In her earlier 20s, Quinn spent a year in prison.
Two years ago, at the legal drinking age, Quinn went to a bar with a lady friend just to have some fun. Unfortunately, the alcohol affected her in the worst possible way. She was taken home, and Quinn asked her to please come inside and help put her to bed. Her friend obliged. But the totally plastered Quinn made a series of aggressive advances on her, and only narrowly avoided raping her by ineptitude of her inebriation. But the severity of the attempt reflected that of the act. Charges were pressed.
With the realization of her indiscretion and the consequences, Quinn's reaction was foreseeable. She was horrified. Both by the fact that she could do this in the first place, drunk or sober—to a friend, no less—and the prosecution and sentence. She'd only meant to get buzzed and enjoy the intoxication. It was the most awful thing to happen to date, both for Quinn and, she had to think, for the friend she'd gone out with. And the worst twelve months of her life. From this point forth, no one could hate Quinn more than she hated herself for what she'd done (with one possible exception). Nobody could punish her more severely than she punished herself. And maybe part of her could never forgive herself. But this year saw her endure some of the most terrible things she could imagine behind those bars, and some she couldn't. Gradually, the trauma helped her overcome the guilt. And she decided when her sentence was up, she had to move on. So following her year of hardened time, Quinn Simmons stepped back out through those doors, went home with her parents, and just talked and talked to them, until a thousand tears were cried and everything was on the table.
For a few months after, Quinn decided to be a hermit and lay low at home. Her debt may have been paid, but repercussions could buffet her at any turn. She wasn't sure she could bear going to the supermarket, the library, the mall, and being recognized from the news. Even if it had been over a year. But by late springtime, as the weather finally became nicer, cabin fever got to be too much. And Quinn needed something to occupy her time. A lot of it. But what? A job? Could that even happen? She already knew from filling out applications that she had to disclose if she'd ever been convicted of a crime. And attempting to lie would only make things worse. This sort of thing couldn't just be masked or buried. Who would hire her now?
*****
The Quinnterview
Wednesday, June 30th, 2010, 8:57 a.m.
She found out at the tail end of June. The K.I.C. was looking for entry-level applicants for their expanding accounting department. No experience was necessary, which played in Quinn's favor. She was at a patent disadvantage, but decided to go in and give it her best...after electing to color her hair. Purely as a cosmetic measure. To restore and boost her self-confidence. Yes. That was why.
Her heart was beating like a Keith Moon solo as she approached the Klondike complex for the first time. She was clad in a new suit, felt prepared as could be, and trying to keep her cool. She was directed to where she'd meet one Miss Raven Bower. When Raven appeared, Quinn's heart reaccelerated. Something abruptly erased her first source of nervousness and replaced it with a new one.
The woman was
stunning
. She was 43—though she looked about seven or eight years younger—light brunette, with an almost perfect but slightly askew symmetry in her beautiful face and smile. She looked to Quinn's eye
exactly
like the gorgeous Melora Hardin, from the TV show...The Office. What serendipity! She took Quinn into
her
office and shut the door, which Quinn rather preferred. They chatted semi-loosely. The interview was more like a casual, friendly conversation. It made her feel somehow...safe, in presence of Miss Raven Bower and only her. Until, that was, twenty minutes in, when Raven asked her about the nature of her conviction.
Quinn froze momentarily. She couldn't say she didn't expect this to come up, but had no idea how to answer.
"I...I-I-I...uh..."
Raven held up a hand. "It's all right, Miss Simmons," she calmly assured. "I've actually already checked you out. I just wanted to hear it from you personally."
Quinn awkwardly dropped her eyes.
"Okay, well, um...yes...Miss Bower. I served a year...after a
very
ill-decided night of...heavy drinking, and...a...
