The Stall To My Right

There she is again. It seems like every time I head into the bathroom, she shows up right afterward. Her cube is right near there so I see her all the time. There's something about her that's different from all the other women who work here, but I can't pin it down. She's pretty -- espresso-colored hair, collar length, bangs across the front, dark lipstick on a somewhat wide, almost asymmetrical mouth, dark eyes, and a very long neck. But her clothes are so very conservative I'm not sure what to make of her. All I know is that I can almost count on her following me into the ladies' room.

She'll stand at the mirror and primp a bit until I go into a stall. She then takes the stall right next to mine. I'm still not sure what to make of it; we all have our favorite stalls after all, and she doesn't seem to do anything unusual. This time I decide to test her -- I choose a different stall. Sure enough, she once again takes the stall to the right of me.

We both sit, neither of us making any audible sound. I am too focused on her to pee. This stall is out of toilet paper, giving me the perfect opportunity: "Can you pass me some toilet paper? This one's out."

"That stall always seems to be out. Here you go." Long pretty fingers with immaculately painted and trimmed fingernails appear under the wall, with a delicately folded wad of tissue. I reach down and as she hands it to me, she touches my fingers and slides off of them as I pull away.

After flushing, I exit and she follows suit. we stand at the sinks, looking in the mirror. I steal a glance at her reflection as she adjusts her blouse, briefly revealing the lacy top of a beautiful -- and expensive-looking -- bra. I look up quickly and she is looking at me -- in the eye -- in the mirror reflection.

"I like your necklace. You always have the most interesting jewelry. I'm Catherine, by the way." Not taking her eyes off of my reflection. I turn to thank her directly and she looks at me for a moment, lipstick tube suspended in a graceful hand. She holds the moment for a little too long, and I feel heat rise from my neck into my cheeks. She smiles mysteriously, and returns to the mirror to reapply her lipstick.

My face is burning, and I hurry out.

I've decided to return, this time with another necklace I had with me. I look directly at her as I head into the bathroom. This time she doesn't even wait. When she comes in, I stammer that "I make these. Would you - like to try one on?"

She smiles with pleasure and with two elegant hands sweeps her hair up and out of the way, holding the pose and looking down at me. I fumble with the necklace and step forward. She is tall, and her expanse of throat is directly before me. To fasten the clasp, I must reach way around and I am keenly aware of the muscles in her throat, the pleasant smell of vanilla and... something else I cannot identify.

Again my face is burning and I step back. I am momentarily distracted by how beautiful my necklace looks on this woman, it sinuous chains draped delicately over pronounced clavicles.

"What do I owe you?" she is asking, admiring the necklace in the mirror. I begin to quote a price but surprise myself by telling her she can have it. She is looking at me so intently I'm starting to feel like her next meal. Blushing, I flee into a stall, the same one as before. She again takes the stall to the right of me.

I'm regaining my composure when her whispered voice shocks me: "It's still out, you know." It's startlingly close, as if she were leaning against the wall separating us. I stammer in agreement, leaning in close. While she is unreeling some tissue I steal a peek under the wall. I am startled to see lacy panties on the floor, hooked around one delicate left foot. Just one. By the angle of the foot, the knees are very far apart.

I realize my own knees are clenched tightly together, thighs flexing, and force myself to open them. When I do this I realize that I'm drenched. Her fingers have reappeared under the wall with several folds of tissue. When I take the tissue I am trembling. She is shaking too, though not in the same way. This time, instead of sliding away from my fingers, she holds them. Holds them! I am transfixed, leaning in close to the wall.

I hear shallow, hurried breaths on the other side, and the thrumming hand clenches mine more tightly, then relaxes. She is not letting go, and the hand still has that subtle shaking. By this time my left hand has found my sopping pussy and my fingers are gliding easily through the folds, pressing against the side of the hood surrounding my swelling clit. I hear a moan escape from dry lips but I'm too dizzy to know whose. My hand is now frantic, swirling around my clit, pressing against it, occasionally sliding down deeper and gathering juices, to quickly return to my white-hot clitoris. I feel her hand begin to clench mine again, and the wall separating us is now wobbling violently, and that is all I need to finish.

I am almost completely unable to control the sounds I'm making as my climax builds. I'm acutely aware that if someone were to come in now I would be unable to disguise my activities, which only makes the tension -- and the climax -- stronger. When it arrives, I find I am holding onto Catherine's hand for dear life, body sagging against the wall for support, barely able to remain on the toilet. She has stopped moving now and seems to be waiting for me to finish, allowing her knuckles to be crushed by the intensity of my orgasm, listening to my breath being sucked through my teeth in jagged, urgent rasps.

At last she pulls gently away, reassembles herself and leaves the stall. When my breath and balance return I emerge, but she is gone. I wash up carefully and creep guiltily out of the restroom. Catherine is in her cubicle, talking on the phone, all business but for her shoes kicked off under her desk, her toes slightly curled; I totter gratefully back to my desk.

I resolve to use the farther-away bathroom when I need to actually go to the bathroom. But when I pass her on the way to "our" bathroom, a long look or a finger dragged along the ledge outside her cubicle is quite enough to summon her into the stall at my right.

I find myself wondering just how long ago it was that she noticed I was left-handed.