There is a secretary at work that is somewhat of a 'shared girl', meaning that her secretarial services are split, or shared, between a couple of offices at my end of the building. She is probably almost 10 or 15 years older than me, making her to be about in her mid to late 50's. Her name is Amy.
Amy takes very good care of herself. She is always eating right, at least at work, and drinking water. She always talks about going to the gym before work at some insane hour like 4:30 or something of that nature. A time of day when any less fanatical person would be sawing logs, not putting in miles on an eliptical machine.
Whatever her workout regimen was, it worked. She was smokin'. Amy always dressed conservatively, but the very well endowed features of her womanly physique shown through anyway. In fact, I am not so sure that she didn't subtly dress in a way as to hint to the treasures she was allegedly covering with her clothing.
Her hair was a faded type of brunette with a hint of silver poking through. Just enough to hint at her age and the fact that although she could be someone's mother, she was definitely not a grandmother. Her full, buxom breasts always filled out whatever top she was wearing and they always seemed just a little too tightly confined in that lucky garment whose material was pulling just enough on the buttons. It was almost as if she was making a subtle show of them...
Her legs were well toned and muscular enough to say she worked out; however, not so much as to scream Mrs. Olympia. She frequently wore skirts that were above the knee and wrapped her very nice legs in stockings.
However, beneath her skirts, slacks, or whatever else she wore, was the feature that brought it all together. Her heart shaped ass. The kind of ass that firmly jiggled as she stepped down. the kind of jiggle that comes from well toned muscle. An erotic and sensual lure to just about any man that draws breath and stands upright. Not that Jell-O like wave that comes from too many desserts while watching TV and not enough activity.
Finally, but definitely not lastly, was her face. Perfectly clear complexion, rosy hue and always alive with activity. Amy was a very pretty woman and all the peices fit together very nicely. Completely and tightly like a well drafted and constructed project, Amy was very attractive for any age.
Amy and I got to know each other very well over the years that she worked between the four offices in my area. We spent time chit-chatting at the copier and had split more than a few lunches at our desks while trying to complete some last minute projects.
We talked enough that I knew her husband was a drunkard and showed very little physical interest in Amy and she knew that my wife and I kept our eyes open and our 'heads up' for anything coming down field. She also knew that we kept no secrets from each other and that we communicated openly about everything that we did.
Her life was a complete contrast. Amy told me repeatedly how closed minded and self centered her husband was. She always had such grand plans during the week. She would talk about things she wanted to do, experiences she wanted to have, a place she wanted to go for dinner. Her banter grew more excited, more urgent as the weekend approached and Friday afternoon came.
I would wish her luck, but I always knew what the result would be. Inevitably she came back to work on Monday, crestfallen. Sometimes the tell tale tracks of tears cut across her firm cheeks. Her plans dashed by her husband's drinking, or some manufactured excuse for him to slip away from her.
On those blue Mondays she always needed a shoulder to cry on. I was happy to oblige. You see, ususally secretaries have their inner circle of people that they can confide in and usually they are other secretaries. People who can understand their lingo and experiences. It helps you get through the day.
For Amy that circle did not exist. Partly because she was not in the main secretarial pool and assigned to specific offices so they looked at her as outside of their clique. Mostly, I believe, because even though she was their elder by a few years she did not give in to 'secretary spread' or any of the other diseases of complacency or aging that plagued her conterparts. She stood out. She was pretty, attractive, desireable and above all she was smart.
That is why I found her interesting.
More than once I had cut and spliced a mental pornography together featuring Amy in some contrived office scenario. The plots were admittedly thin, but, then again, how thick does the plot have to be? The little movies always got me hard and I took care of business. That was what was supposed to happen, right?
Everything was humming along fine at work. My little movies were entertaining me and I was able to function as a human being. Until the day came that Amy showed up with the little red mark on her cheek.
She had tried to conceal it and, in the end, that is what probably drew my attention to it. Maybe she used a little too much concealer on purpose. Maybe she let her eyes well up on purpose, maybe not. Whatever the reason, she caught my attention that Monday.
I called her into my office on the pretense of taking some dictation (oh, the irony..). I had her sit down, her notebook in hand, her legs crossed very daintily as she sat in the chair before my desk. Her skirt and customary hosery were perfect, maybe the skirt was even a little shorter than usual...
Her white satin blouse had a slightly plunging neckline that revealed just the faintest hint of her plentiful cleavage. It was just enough to be seductive; to whisper sexy and not cross over the line and scream 'whore'. The little choker style necklace she was wearing just added to the hint of the passions that burned beneath her clothes. Camouflaged but not completely hidden. A trick in the seductive arts that an experienced woman knows how to play.
I told her that I had brought her in to talk to her privately, that I had noticed the little mouse swelling and redness on her cheek. I asked if everything was ok?
The floodgates opened. She placed her face into her palms. Her silent sobbing just barely audible with the air condictioner fan humming away in the corner. The tick of the clock on the wall seemed interminable as she cried.
What had I done? Amy was crying in my office. She sobbed silently. Her chest heaving, shoulders scrunched forward. If she could have reduced herself into a ball of lint and rolled under my desk I have no doubt she would have done so. I wanted to help her. I wanted to find out what was bothering her and help. Instead, I felt like a heel. I hadn't been the one to strike her, but I was the one that made her cry.
I did the only thing I could think to do. The natural thing that way down deep inside instinctually tells a man what he must do when he sees a woman crying and in pain. Perhaps it was what she was baiting me toward after all.
I knelt beside her and placed my hands on her forearm. I comforted her, stroked her hair and told her that everything was going to be ok. She hiccuped a few more sobs and then dropped her hands.
Her eyes crested over the tips of her fingers like the moonrise over snowcapped mountains. The eyeliner and mascara trailing faintly down her cheeks. Carried in the rivulets of her tears. More tears, waiting to breach over her eyelids and join their sisters working their way down her face to her neck, sat ready to go.
At that momet, that precise moment, in her vulnerability I saw her at her most feminine. I saw her at her most beautiful. I could feel the stirring in my loins. Something about her vulnerability was sexually exciting to me.
