The sequel to Drunken Revenge. Enjoy round two between Sabrina and Carly!
For A Glass of Fine Wine
Written by: Sparrow9642
I'm done with today. My last nerve has been reached, and I am just ready to go home and drink myself silly to sleep. Today was nothing but a straight trip to Hell and back, every single event of it being nothing but the equivalent of the sting of a bitchslap, and I'm not talking about just your average petty bitchslap; I'm talking about the ones that are powerful enough to turn the victim's head and leave a welted impression that would most likely be bruised the following day.
Yeah. It was that bad.
Let me start from the beginning. The morning was what started this whole culmination of bullshit, my alarm not going off until thirty minutes later, causing me to have to rush through my usual morning rituals. My shower wasn't long enough for me to even open my eyes fully and receive a proper greeting from the comfort of the steam and warm water, but more a race against time to see if I could even get every inch of my body cleaned fully.
To put it short and subtle, five minutes wasn't even long enough to get every bit of the shampoo out of my hair. My hair is long and thick, so it needs lots of maintenance to look like I haven't just woken up and walked through the door of my workplace looking like an absolute mess who has a massive hangover.
Upon walking into my workplace, all the eyes of my coworkers were on me like a broadway star in the spotlight of some fancy and well-written play. I had paid them no attention and had just worked my way to the coffee machine in the break room. Coffee always helped me to escape the suffocation of a bad mood or morning, so, despite my short shower and alarm clock malfunction, maybe this could make the day bearable after all.
Then I saw the empty pot. It had been stained with the coffee stains it had earned over its time of not being cleaned out, but none of that bitter morning juice rested in its glass body.
I had already been ready to kill whoever had lacked the responsibility of making a new serving, having turned away from the pot with a sharp death glare that I'm absolutely sure made my fellow coworkers jump and sweat in absolute terror.
They know that when I am pissed, it is best to come forward, otherwise things will get ugly very fast.
Then along came my boss, Chuck Sherman. The best way to describe him is a doppelganger of Clark Kent without the glasses, along with the fact that he has looks that women kill for. To me, he's nothing special to look at, seeming less like a prince charming and more of a sugar daddy that would sleep with any woman willing to suck his dick.
It's no secret he's slept with almost every female in the building, seeing I've heard the sounds of fucking many times in wannabe-Superman's office, just outside of the locked door while passing by. Plus, the blinds are always shut and someone is always missing from their station, mainly Christina, the biggest slut in the entire building.
She has the description of a Barbie doll, but with bigger breasts and a dirty personality. It's clear that she and Chuck are in some secret relationship and have been since day one of Christina's arrival in the building.
While the majority of the workers respectfully wear attire that shows only little skin, Christina purposely wears shit that exposes about seventy percent of her body; shirts that unbutton to where her rack nearly falls out and skirts that cut off just inches from her crotch, and if you are standing too close and looking down, her G-string is literally right in your face.
Personally, I try to avoid her as much as I can, seeing I once stood too close and could smell what she and Chuck had just done clear as day. Her attempt at cloaking it with her suffocating perfume wasn't enough to spare me of something I'd rather not have even inhaled and nearly gagged at, and I honestly think she had done it on purpose.
Luckily, the smell of Christina's pussy hadn't lingered upon Chuck's approach, my face still holding the same glare.
"Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed," he had attempted to joke.
My face didn't change, but Chuck apparently had missed the clear message stained on my face.
"You know, I can help you if you need something to better your mood."
I grunted at that, his intent being nothing of interest to me.
"Do me a favor Chuck and keep your shit in your pants where it belongs," I had answered, then turned away and began to prepare another serving of coffee. However, that didn't happen, because the coffee machine had turned out to be busted from lack of maintenance.
Chuck had been lucky that I had enough sense to not kill someone over a machine malfunction, otherwise, heads would've been rolling this morning.
That's not the first time Chuck has tried something like that either. He's wanted in my pants ever since the day I walked through the door of that place, and I've refused every single time. For one thing, I'm a lesbian and have been ever since the night I had gotten so drunk that I'd fucked my worst enemy as a way of getting revenge.
Oh? Is this sounding familiar?
That's right, I'm the very same woman, Sabrina Williams. It's been a year and a half since that little incident, and it honestly seems like nothing more than a speck in the back of my mind. It may seem strange that I've buried that memory as a night of letting my demons loose, but there's good reason behind it.
You see, not long after the incident, Carly had confronted me about that night. Where? Not important; let's just say it was somewhere private and not around anybody else except us.
Surprisingly, she hadn't seemed angry or upset, but more calm and natural. She had been having one of her usual cigarettes, and it all had gone something like this.
I had heard a voice shouting out my name, so I had turned to the direction of it and, low and behold, there was Carly Simpson, standing about fifteen feet from me with a lit cigarette resting between her right index and middle fingers.
She had been dressed casually, which had absolutely surprised me. A regular pink t-shirt, blue jeans that covered every inch of her skinny legs, and black high heels.
She looked far from the Carly Simpson I had once known. No fancy or revealing clothes, just casual clothing that a regular early-twenties girl would wear on a regular day.
I couldn't believe my eyes.
"Carly?" I had questioned, still unsure if I had really been looking at Carly Simpson in the flesh.
She had simply smiled at the comment, being less of a greeting one and more of an unsettling one.
She had taken a drag of her cylindrical friend and exhaled all of the fumes in a slow progression before her response.
"It's been a long time," she had started, smoke still slinking out of her mouth. "A little too long, considering what happened the last time we saw each other."
