Her name was Heather Maxwell. She had gorgeous blond locks and the brightest baby blues ever to look my way. I was crushing on her hard. Like a sparkling sunset on a calm ocean, she only showed her face once a day at the most, but it was always a sight to behold. Yes, we worked in the same building, but I was always too busy in my cubicle balancing spreadsheets and proofreading ledgers to venture by the editors' room all that often. She was one of the best editors the magazine had too, which put her leagues above me. Besides, I did not even know if she was into women or not. And if she was, why would she go for a lowly desk jockey with short hair and horrible fashion taste. Seriously, my fashion taste was simply atrocious, which might be why I was left with the accounting work since this was a fashion magazine. It's not like I'm butch or anything. In fact, I have always been rather petite. My cup size was small little As at most, my hair was short because I never knew what to do with it long, I wore dorky glasses, and I typically dressed for comfort more than anything else. I'm not a tomboy but certainly not a girly-girl either. Most days I wore a pant suit. As much as I loved skirts, they looked better on other women than on myself. I tried to offset this with light pink lipstick sometimes, but I don't think that ever worked.
Today was a bit relaxed for everyone though. There was cake out and everyone was getting ready to celebrate Samantha's upcoming wedding. Samantha was the head editor of the magazine, and she also happened to be my old college roommate. She was always a great friend and, when she found out I had fallen on some tough times with my finances—student loans will do that to a girl—she was more than happy to put in a good word here with the higher ups. I was actually serving as her maid of honor in the wedding, despite my reluctance. What did I know about weddings? I never planned to have one, considering when I was growing up you simply didn't hear of two women getting hitched. I suppose it was possible now, but still, it had never been something programmed into me like it was with so many other girls. Nonetheless, I was her best friend, so I had to woman up and get the job done. She had found a great guy and needed my help with making their ceremony into something special.
"Mm, this is excellent cake," said Julie, one of my fellow cubicle mates, from across the way as she munched down.
"Very much so," echoed Jimmy, another one of us. "You baked this, right, Jenny?"
"Sure did!" I answered. I knew chocolate was Samantha's favorite.
All of a sudden I felt soft arms wrap around me from behind. It was Samantha giving me a warm hug. "Thanks for the cake, hun. I can only hope the bakery does half as good a job with the actual wedding cake."
"I'm sure they will," I replied, feeling a little uncomfortable as I felt Samantha's bosom press against the nape of my neck. She was always far more endowed than most, quite similar to Heather. She knew I was both envious of them and infatuated by them, and she would often tease me about it. As close of friends as we were, she could be rather annoying in that way. She had found out my preference early in college when she walked in on me with my girlfriend at the time. Ever since then, she made it a point to tease me with little flirtations. It was fun at first, but quickly became grating. Like teasing a mouse with a piece of cheese it can never have.
"Very yummy indeed, Jen," said another familiar voice. I turned to see that it came from Heather who had been slipping her tongue out to delicately slide a piece of cake off her fork, between her lips, and into that sexy mouth of hers. Well, I am certain it was far more mundane than that. My imagination may have concocted some of that. But I swear, the way that woman ate a piece of cake was in itself a miracle to see. Needless to say, she turned my head, arousing a blush to my cheeks that would leave them lightly stained for the rest of the day. "You should cook more often. I'd love to taste more of what you can do," she added before walking away. Was she flirting with me? That had done me in. The sunset had blessed me a second time that day and I wouldn't soon forget it. That's what crushing does, I suppose. Just that tiny amount of attention set my heart a-flutter.
It was not long after that that Samantha announced that all the women of the office were invited out this Friday, just two days from now, to a night on the town at her expense. It would be a sort of hen party with booze, bar hopping, dancing, the works. I had a duty to go, being her maid of honor, but I really didn't look forward to it until I heard that Heather had confirmed her attendance too. I went home to my apartment that evening fantasizing about her. She was in every thought to cross my mind, and my thoughts were whether mundane on average. But part of me was a bag of knots too. This was the rational part that said, "Jenny, what's it matter? You will spend the entire night avoiding her just like you do at the office. Stop getting your hopes up, silly girl." I had to concede that this was probably the part of me that was correct too, which was why when the day finally came, I did not really spend much time fixing myself up.
That rationale part of me did not stop me from indulging a little though. I lay in bed all night thinking of the way her tongue had wrapped around that piece of cake, and the way her ruby red lips parted for it, as if kissing the sweet deeply. I have to admit that I got a little carried away with my thoughts. I slipped a hand down the front of my panties, legs spread, and began to touch myself while thinking of her. My pointer and middle fingers parted my folds to squeeze and tease my hardening clit as I imagined her lips and tongue doing to it what they had done to that piece of cake. It was not long before I was writhing beneath my covers in sweet orgasmic bliss.
***
"Nice outfit, Jen" Samantha said with an edge of sarcasm in her voice. She was never one to hold back.
"Yeah, sorry. Should have put more work into it I guess," I replied. The day had come and we were all out at our first stop: a new, premier club called Black Jet d'Eau, which was really just a bastardization of the name of a famous fountain in Switzerland in a poor attempt to sound hot and fresh. And there I was, leaning against the bar, wearing a silly light pink plaid shirt tucked beneath a soft black four-panel skirt. The skirt had been a last minute addition to try and dress up at least a little after finding out some of the places we would be hitting—I had originally planned just a pair of tight jeans in all honesty. Samantha really wanted to live it up tonight it seemed.
