For mile after mile of beautiful, New York state roads, two co-workers, Beatrix and Emily traveled together in complete and utter silence.
One of the two, she with charcoal-colored hair, anxiously tightening her fingers and palms around the steering wheel of the car in which they rode. The other, the one with long, straight golden locks, sat in an equal state of bother. Her state of disquiet made clear as she sat in the passenger seat, crossing and then re-crossing her legs. The two women at unrest separated by a an overly thin, teasingly tight center console. One that matched the tight confines of their economy-tier rental. A rental that kept them close -- agonizingly so.
Agonizing though it was, the two had always been close to one another, literally, though not figuratively. For they had for years at that point, sat back-to-back in the same cubicle; sharing the same friends, favorite restaurants/bars, and even in-office men for dates, when they so chose. And yet, during all that time spent either circling each other socially, or with their hair dangling and tangling behind the back of their chairs, they had only engaged in the most precursory of conversations with one another.
In the first few weeks of their hiring and placement together in the sea of modern business necessity, the two did as women do. Each spending their free moments and the energies of their unbusy minds comparing themselves to each other. Not overtly, but silently to themselves. Whose legs were longer; clothes were tighter; hair was better-styled; breasts were bigger, better, and more effectively put on display; but most keenly, whose voice was the most seductive.
Maybe, if they had found their comparisons easy, and the winner of each perceived competition clear, the two could have each moved on from it in a day. Cruelly, however, to their great irritation, they found themselves not only similar but maddeningly so.
Their bosoms being of equal size and shape. Their legs of equal length and tone. Their round, gym-tight asses comparing no different than that of they and their own reflection. And worst of all, their voices each velvet-soft, silk-smooth, and lingering in the most sensual of ways.
Such recognition of similarity did not come quickly, in a day, a week, or even a month. But after a year -- a painful, jealousy-breeding year of side-eyed comparisons and long, tortuously obvious moments of extended presence, and convenient positioning. Moments in which the two women stood side-by-side at the water cooler or in hallways of the large corporate floor, each pretending not to notice the other's matching poses or examining eyes.
Rather than accepting that equality, and perhaps letting it be a point of bonding or the foundation for a friendship, the two women began to obsess.
Every moment of their workday spent, with whatever attention they could spare, spent studying each other. Every move, every sound, and even every decision their competition, as they saw it, might make. They, lost in their need to compare, searching for any small difference they could cling to, desperate for something -- ANYTHING that would set them apart.
And yet still, despite their intense focus on each other, our black-and-blonde-haired cubicle-mates exchanged only those words they had to, and not a syllable more. Neither pushing for a dialogue, or even allowing themselves to stumble into a situation where such might be required.
One leaving work early, whereas the other might leave late. Efforts spent to make sure that they did not need to walk from hall to exit together, or god forbid, find themselves locked in the same elevator.
That refusal to engage one another directly caused a dizzying and palpable atmosphere of tension to grow between them with every passing minute.
A cauldron of rivalry and frustration, it was.
A sauna of requited jealousy, and projected self-loathing.
Despite the intensity of their own feelings, however, both Beatrix and Emily imagined that it was only they who felt such things, assuming that the other was oblivious to their silent struggle. But eventually, when they had truly settled into the daily grind of their competing qualities, that belief was shattered.
A shattering that occurred, when one day, Beatrix laid her head back on her chair and began to imagine. She slipping into a dream she had been blessed with the night before, and the night before that.
In it, she and Emily were both nude and glaring at each other. They stood not a foot apart, and yet on the verge of bringing their frustratingly similar bodies together, though to what end, she did not at first know.
As it had on every occurrence of the dream, that image caused her panties to wet, and her hand to drift down between her legs, which spread just far enough to allow herself access. Then, after shifting her panties to one side, she began to rub at her aching clit, sending bolts of electricity through her body, and a blanket of distraction over her mind.
A distraction that grew worse as in that mind, and as she pictured Emily reaching out and shoving her, only for she to return that push a moment later. Back and forth they laid hands on each other with increasing force, until finally together they dove, their lips sealing, and tongues clashing in an epic explosion of long-denied passion and desire.
As she fought back moans, Beatrix continued to rub herself, leaning back further and further in her chair, until suddenly she felt it. A gentle thud, and then a shifting contact, one she knew immediately was the back of Emily's head against her own.
Her first and most fear-laden instinct was to jerk herself forward, sit up, pull her sundress bottom back down, and quickly end her self-stimulation. But as thought turned to action, she found herself shocked.
Emily had not pulled away, commented on the contact, or made even the slightest sound of objection. And so the black-haired beauty remained not only leaning back, but with her fingers on her clit.
In such a precarious state, she simply listened and felt -- not wanting to make a move before she who sat behind. Through such senses, she felt Emily softly turning her chair, one way and then back, not in any discernible sequence, but randomly. An action which caused the back of their pressing heads to rub together, and their lavishly kept hair to brush not just once, but then again and again.
Leery though Beatrix was, as the slow, soft, rubbing of locks continued, she let her eyes close and her attention to focus on the sensation of it. The rubbing. The shifting. So unexpected it was, and yet, it felt... It felt... The black-haired Beatrix could not then describe it, or do so even now, if you asked her. For it was not nerve-endings being triggered that created the sensation, nor the touch itself that caused her heart to pound and pulse to race.
Instead, it was something else -- something ethereal. More forged of Beatrix' excitement about she and her rival touching, when so little between them had been spoken.
That feeling of taboo swelled in her as she and Emily, for the first time, shared something other than proximity.
A sensation of titillation that led Beatrix to once again stroke her throbbing clit, not because she meant to, but because she had to.
Not because she was daring, but because she was desperate. The excitement of just that single touch driving her wild with want, a hunger that grew worse with every second that it continued. For as every such second passed, it became more and more likely that Emily's press was not accidental -- not unnoticed, but instead intentional and desired.
A revelation of consent and craving that Emily too reveled in. The blonde's own fingers pressing through her already moistened inner labia, once and then again. Her digit working as she, in her imagination, spun that moment, and she and her rival's press into a scene of sexual majesty and potency that puts this writing and all others meant to excite to shame.
