Chapter 2: Toe Fucking at Lunch
(This story continues directly after the events of Letting Go I)
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She had to run to catch her bus. Her skirt was short and she was wearing no knickers, her knees were weak after the morning love games, her loins tenderized from the breakfast spanking, and, to make her vulnerability even worse, her heels were threatening to scatter beneath her, betray her and send her splaying arse backward on the sidewalk.
She tried not to meet the bus driver's eye. There was still the rest of the crowd. This was the late bus, the full bus, all around her faces and hands sitting at the level of her skirt, and standing arms and hands holding on at the level of her breasts, fingers tap-tap tapping at their mobiles, warm and dextrous, manipulating.
She had to take her mind off the moisture at her thighs. No one is looking, she told herself. After all, she asked herself, was it something she herself would have been looking for? And no one was sniffing, she told herself. She tried not to breathe so hard, tried to keep her breasts from heaving in their pretty pink T, the lovely lace of her bra, tried to keep her skirt from fluttering.
Her workmates were already there, moving in and out of the bathroom, attending to their make up, chatting about the coffee urn, officially here, but not willing to start work a moment before they had to. Their eyes glittered at her as she hurried in. She slowed herself. Be nonchalant, she told herself. Be like you're walking out onto a dance floor.
She gave them a dance floor smile, a performer's smile, and their bodies relaxed. The spiteful glitter went from their eyes, and they lost interest in her, so gracefully, sexily, she moved past them to her chair. She had, at least, arrived ahead of the boss, and there wasn't really any gossip in the matter.
They would have loved knowing that she was wearing no undies, that she had arrived at work flushed and almost late with no knickers. That would have given them something to talk about. They had so little to talk about, TV and celebrities, office gossip, things they chewed over and over again.
She made it to her chair. She sat down. Her skirt was short, not really long enough to sit on. Like her lover at home, sitting on his wheelie chair, fibers prickling his buttocks while he worked. He would never really have put the C on her, laying her on the edge of the bed, lifting her this way, turning her that way, hands busy, methodically, about her private parts, cleaning, rubbing lotion in, fingers solicitously inspecting, patiently probing despite her sudden wild thrusting, his hand pressing down on her pube, then pressing the leather down about her, pulling it up tight along her slit, so that at every heaving breath it pushed against her and she was so weak at the knees she could barely crawl. He liked to watch her like that some Sundays, when they played their games. But he would never really have done it this morning. He could not have borne the ugliness it would have made of the lines of her skirt.
Her boss arrived, sweeping into the bathroom. She had been thinking of her boss when she had bought the underwear, simple and girly, the way her boss made her feel. Her breasts and her bra were made for each other, and that morning, she had admired herself in the mirror, thinking of her boss. Her panties had sat across her like a fine tattoo. She had looked at herself, the beauty she had made of herself, and thought of her boss.
The lace, the silk, the excitement of the idea of it, the idea of her boss's eyes and boss's fingers finding these fine things alive in the boring world of the office, had betrayed her. When her lover had made her laugh, she had started a game, and it had all unraveled against the clock, and so here she was with no knickers at all, yet her loins were alive and her breasts were warm, and she tried not to stare as she watched her boss go through that door.
Rising, she followed her boss into the bathroom.
"Only me," she sang out, so her boss would hear her voice.
She took her brush from her handbag and began brushing her hair, watching her hair in the mirror flow about her face and become charged with electricity so she had to run her fingers over it. There was a sound of flushing. She turned as a cubicle door opened and her boss came out, sleek skirt running below the knees and a dark office jacket to match, structured and business like. She felt so floral and feminine in comparison. Yet under the jacket her boss wore a shiny, satiny, loose-flowing blouse, the soft smoothness a temptation to the fingers.
Her boss smiled. Her boss had an honest, straightforward, smile, white teeth and a mobile mouth.
"You look nice today," her boss said.
When her work mates said that, they usually meant the opposite or, at best, that the receiver of the compliment had looked far from nice on other days. When her boss said it, it was like she was glad to see someone happy.
"Help yourself," she answered, then smiled at her boss's sudden look of confusion, and so she indicated the wash basin behind her. Her boss came forward. There were three wash basins in the room, but her boss came to the one she was standing in front of, choosing hers. She had to move aside, but she stayed close, watching the water run over her boss's hands, over her fingers, and all the rings glinting and glimmering there. The rings caught her eyes. Even when her boss moved to the dryer and raised her hands to the breeze, she watched them.
"Are you married?" she asked, casually, like an ice-breaker, just starting a normal, meaningless conversation.
"Divorced," her boss answered, looking back at her. Her boss was the sort of person who studied the faces of the people she spoke to.
Oh." She thought of a wedding night, falling lace, and a bed.
"I have two kids," her boss added, as if deciding to answer the question that always came next, perhaps answering because she had not asked. "Teenagers." She stopped smiling, and looked tired.
"Oh." She wanted her boss to smile again. "But you're here now. And you have all those beautiful rings." She wanted her boss to feel beautiful again.
"Yes. Well. Some days I like to be armed."
"Armed?"
The dryer stopped. Her boss looked at her for a moment.
"You know. Some days, when you are expecting things to be difficult, you put on your best make up and your best jewelry, and get ready to face the world. It's like a mask, or an armor."
Her boss wasn't wearing make-up, though. Glancing in the mirror, checking herself before she went to face the world, her boss added, "I don't have time to put on make-up, though," she added ruefully, letting a small smile come back to her face. She straightened her jacket so that it was snug across the shoulders.
"Are you expecting a difficult day?"
Her boss looked at her straight, not expecting sympathy.
"Meetings. And middle management isn't so easy," she admitted at last, and turned to the door.
"Hey." She couldn't let this chance go, this moment alone, whatever her boss's mood. "Would you like to go out to lunch?"
Her boss paused, and she knew this was a difficult situation for her.
"I know," she told her boss. "There are a lot of reasons why not. Office politics." Office politics and office gossip went hand in hand, and would always get in the way of an office romance. "But we could go quietly, meet around the corner from the smokers. We could have a giggle over lunch and be back before anyone noticed. Why not?"
Her boss looked at her, thinking, being a person who considered ways and means, a manager whose job was to consider 'how' before deciding 'if'. Or, more often, being told 'if' and being left to work out the 'how' anyway. In this case, weighing a character.
"All right," she said, smiling, and went.
She wanted to hug herself. Smoothing her hair down, letting the charge out, letting her fingers trace across her breasts above her T just once, letting herself glow. Then she brought back some control. Her work mates work mates would wonder what she'd been up to if she came out of the bathroom looking too happy.
Letting herself slump a little, droop a little, she passed them by, eyes lowered, keeping her mouth in a line of sorrow lest there be even a hint of a smile, and slid into her chair. She put her feet flat on the floor, sat up straight and squared her shoulders as if for battle, riffling some invoices while she stared hard at her monitor. After a while she remembered to turn it on.
Her lover was working at home, moving between the kitchen and his study. He'd take the knickers from where they were drying on the draining board and hang them on the on the drafting board where he could see them while he worked.
Her lover loved women and adored their clothes. In a while he'd even be wearing her panties. His cock would grow big in them, pushing at the lace, and the feel of that lace pushing back, prickling tickling at it's head would stir him. His hand would be there, pulling at the lace to give himself room. His fingers would touch the silk and then return to feel that softness again and again. He would pull at his dick, wrapping the lace into that soft, silk skin.
There was nothing as smooth as the silky skin a man's cock. He would jerk and jerk himself. He would not be able to keep himself for her, wouldn't be able to wait for tonight. Those panties would call him and he would come, moan and spasm, roar and tear. They would tear and he would rub the shreds along his length. For a long time afterwards, cleaning himself, and then, while he worked, idly rubbing himself, silk on silk.
He wouldn't wonder why she had chosen such fine underwear that day.
Lunch time came. She gave her workmates a chance to hurry out ahead of her before sauntering out herself. Outside, a warm sunshine caught at her eyes. She walked around the corner, past the smokers, and once past them could breathe the afternoon breeze. The air tickled up around her, trying to lift her skirt, but her handbag held it down. In a while, she found herself walking in step with her boss. Separately, they swung up aboard a tram. There didn't seem to be anyone from the office there. Still, they didn't speak, but when she stepped down and onto the footpath, her boss followed. When she stepped past the diners at the outside tables and into the dimness of a restaurant, her boss was right behind her.
The waiter was a slender, wiry young man, with an abundance of black curls, as if workaday matters couldn't stop the luxury of life glowing within him, and dark, bright eyes.
"Inside, up the back," she told him softly. She liked the lightness of his skin across his cheeks. With a slight bow, and smile that agreed that they were friends now, he lead them to the very back, past the tables with their thick, white cloths, the walls with their pictures of nude women, famous old art, to something like a booth, high backs that gave them privacy. Best of all, no one else from the office was here. She took notice of the faces she passed. No one at all from work.
Across the isle from them, two women kissed across their table, deeply, passionately, all their sensuality pouring from their lips, making them beautiful.
She smiled at her boss.
"Take your coat off," she told her boss. "Make yourself comfortable."
