It had been a day that she preferred to forget. Three days in San Francisco should have translated into great food and drink, walks along the bay and shopping, always shopping. But this trip was an accident waiting to happen from the moment she stepped off the plane without the laptop. An unprofessional mistake to be sure, for on the hard drive were proprietary designs, sales strategies, even some internal statistics from a rival company that originated from some low-level industrial espionage. The airline could not explain where the laptop was, and hence neither could Ellen Maine, the up and coming regional vice president, rumored to be on the short list for VP of sales for the entire United States. Yet there was the matter of the damned laptop that was making the wrong kind of splash at corporate, jamming her cell phone with calls regarding the meeting that should have been.
She desperately wanted to return to Chicago and get back to work—do damage control for her reputation really—but the company president personally extended her stay for an additional two days on the off chance that the computer would reappear and that she could continue the buy-out talks originally scheduled. In the meantime she waited, something Ellen was not used to doing.
On a Tuesday, emotionally exhausted, she found herself in the dining room of the Huntington Hotel atop Nob Hill, considering the Filet Mignon and the Grilled Yellow Tail. She was dressed as usual in one of her power outfits: a dark blue jacket, skirt and nylons, a yellow silk blouse and Balconette bra that matched her silk panties that dipped in a ‘V' toward the upper reaches of her trimmed pubic line, and tastefully subtle but extremely pricy platinum jewelry with diamonds, her signature adornment, whether in her ears, on her wrist, her finger or around her neck, all perched atop black Bruno Magli shoes with a thin medium heel. Five foot four and on the busty side, Ellen tastefully down-played her boobs just enough, yet accented them to draw at least some attention, for alluding to deep cleavage was her one and only acknowledgement that she indeed had boobs, both large and firm and quite sensitive even to her touch. Her ex-husband often accused her of downplaying her body—she was naturally attractive with hazel eyes, chin-length dark brunette hair in a stylish wedge and freckled skin sporting a perpetual Mediterranean tan, her body proportional and her mouth a tad pouty from an almost imperceptible overbite—with assets that could have sped faster her rise to the top. But to her credit she wanted to ‘do it on her own merit' as she put it, rather than sleep her way there, so only hubby had gotten to slide his meat between her assets and, with thumbs manipulating her nipples like two all-purpose buttons of a video game, empty his load on her neck, on her face, or, if she were in a rare mood, planted deep in her throat and tickled by the guttural sounds of her moaning.
But her devotion to her career had cost her that marriage, and she had to keep herself busy near constantly to hold at bay the knowledge that at 35, though the epitome of the girl next door (if she were childless, gorgeous, 36D stacked, and with an IQ of 145, a BA from Yale and a law degree from American University), she had not been laid in twenty-five months, to be exact. Not inclined to drink to excess, nor prone to idly socialize, she went only to company functions and assiduously maintained ample distance between her private life and work.
She did masturbate, and nightly almost, so an asexual prude she was not when it came to pleasure and the healing power of frequent orgasms, but masturbation for her was most often a sedative to ease her perpetually tense body. She used just her fingers and lubricated so freely that she never needed additional moisture. Masturbation also represented the one part of her life where she admitted to herself that she had bisexual tendencies, with fantasies that sometimes involved men she had seen that day, on television or on the streets of Chicago, or women she glimpsed, secretaries in the office pool, or girls in their late teens, younger than she and hence free of the responsibilities she bore. She admired their liberty just to be themselves rather than having to conform to her constrained world of blue suits and late nights at the office. Her fantasies often relieved her of power and responsibility, and cast her in roles where her partner would call the shots and, sometimes, if she had drunk a few drinks before bedtime, would make demands of her that walked that thin line between things she wanted to do and things that in the light of day might repulse her. For reasons mysterious to her these particular thoughts frequently intruded into her orderly fantasy life and inexplicably resulted in her most powerful orgasms; she would cry out in the dark silence of her bedroom, her back arched and her legs up and splayed and hanging to either side of her body, her face twisted in pleasure as her pelvis thrust against her taut fingers until the sensations nearly passed and she forced herself to suck the musky juices from her uncurled fingers pulled from her dank slit. Such fantasies drained her emotionally, and frequently shamed her to imagine them; how unlikely that a teenager or an office girl could make her do that she mused.
But tonight she was not thinking of such things as she ordered dinner—the Yellow Tail after all—over The Wall Street Journal and some exquisite red wine. She planned on turning in early and getting a fresh start on, well, still waiting for the damned computer to reappear and hoping that her boss would allow her to return to Chicago. She finished dinner and made for the door when the bartender's voice called out and informed the entire lounge through which she passed that a patron had bought a round for the house, an Irish Car Bomb. She waved off the drink and started to walk away when she heard someone in the small crowd murmur and laugh "I told you she wasn't the type."
The phrase for some reason irritated her—just one more thorn in an irritating day—so she visited the ladies' room and returned to drink her drink perched on a bar stool and in full view of whoever doubted her game spirit. Soon came the tall drink of murky Guinness stout fortified with Jameson and Baileys. She was in a bit of a hurry, only because Ellen Maine was usually in a dash, so she virtually chugged it, unaware of the synergistic power of a drink not meant to be chugged by a relative novice. By the time she had again returned from the bathroom the wine from her meal and the drink had given her an energetic buzz. The bar was too stuffy, so she decided to solicit a recommendation of where to go for another drink. What the hell, she figured, the night was shot and she needed a break from the usual.
The clerk at the desk sized her up and, with a mischievous glint in his eye, recommended a bar that was within a five minute taxi ride. She thanked him with a tip and left. A young woman at the desk overheard the conversation and chided her coworker for directing the woman to an artsy lesbian bar.
"This is Frisco" he laughed, "she should at least have an authentic experience. And if she hates it there are other bars nearby, so chill" he responded with a chuckle, and they both laughed in the knowledge that their shifts were due to end, and that they would be long gone by the time she returned.
The taxi ride was quick. She walked into a rather quiet place with dim lights, couples scattered about and a Bohemian feel that reminded her of her Yale days. She approached the bar and made the mistake of asking if the bartender could copy the previous drink that had made her feel so loose and adventurous. But the bartender's concoction doubled the whiskey, and Ellen had no knowledge of this. She looked around and realized that she was a bit too formally dressed, so she self-consciously took her drink and walked to a small circular table near a window, removed her jacket, opened another button on her blouse and proceeded to people-watch as a duo of women began to fill the quiet space with folk songs, and the bar became a bit more crowded in response.
She noticed a girl with short hair, dyed dark red, enter, order a clear drink and scan the bar for a table. She was very thin, very tall and long-legged, clearly five inches taller than Ellen and dressed in a jean jacket seemingly held together with patches overtop a yellow sun dress that fell to just above her knees. She wore sandals without heels, and her piercings were evident even from across the room.
Slowly her eyes came to rest on Ellen and the open seat at her table, one of the few left in the bar. She grabbed her drink and artist's valise and approached her, asking with a pleasant smile if she could sit. Though slightly taken aback, Ellen assented noncommittally and momentarily proceeded to watch the band. As the girl removed her denim jacket Ellen began to study her striking profile.
She was in her very early twenties or late teens it seemed. Her ears were studded several times each with an understated stud in her nose and a silver ball near the tip of her tongue, and Ellen inferred others that were not visible (for at least one unnaturally shaped bulge pressed against her dress where one nipple should have been) as she continued to study the girl, Ellen striking the overt posture of a drunk getting drunker. Her silhouette was girlish and delicate, with a button nose, long lashes and small delicate ears atop an aquiline neck. A tiny butterfly tattoo adorned her neck beneath her left ear and another, something unexpectedly large and—it was hard to tell in the dim light--seemingly with feathers, peaked out of her dress and no doubt spread over at least part of her right breast and perhaps both. Her nails were polished red to match her hair, which up close unselfconsciously showed blond roots that were pushing out the red, and matched red lipstick. She fiddled with her tongue piercing by slowly rotating it on her upper palate as she listened silently to a balled that told of forbidden love between two teenagers.
As Ellen continued staring somewhat drunkenly at what showed of the tattoo and, by extension, the girl's spare right breast, the girl turned unexpectedly to her and asked in a friendly voice "would you like to see my cock?"
Ellen was caught off guard, blinking a couple of times to clear her head, and stammered "your what?" as she quickly moved her eyes from the tattoo on the girl's right breast to her eyes.
