Thanks to Wicked Inside for editing & feedback. Thanks to everyone in the forums who provided valuable feedback on my first story, The Coldest Night of the Year.
*****
MONDAY
I should have known better than to take a summer internship that my stepdad had gotten for me. He was less interested in improving my resume than he was in getting me out of the house. But my options were limited. By limited, I mean I had exactly one. It was May, ten years ago, and I had just finished my freshman year at college.
The internship was in a nameless office park in the middle of some godforsaken suburban wasteland out past the airport. It was one of those places where Chipotle passes for Mexican and Starbucks for coffee.
The guy I was subletting from was some sort of engineer who'd gone back to China for a funeral, or a wedding, or maybe just to spend a couple of months eating real Chinese food. I had no idea, but the place felt like a CIA safe house - nondescript, cheaply furnished, and in the shadow of an on ramp.
I made the bold decision to walk the two miles to work. I'm pretty certain I was the first person to actually walk on some of those sidewalks. Did I mention it was hot? It was hot as fuck.
I arrived at the office park. The developer who had thrown the whole mess together had been too embarrassed to put his name on it. The building itself was a glass box. It was gray and grimy-looking. I suspected it had been gray and grimy-looking the day the building was completed. I was feeling like I'd already done a full day's work on an Alabama chain gang.
I entered the lobby. I was hit by a blast of AC that froze my sweat-drenched shirt to my body. I found my employer's name next to the elevators: Fletcher Freight, Suite 701.
When I hit the seventh floor, the elevator opened onto an empty reception desk. I wandered behind the desk, looking for a cubicle dweller who could help me find my new boss. I almost caught the eye of a man at standing next to a laser printer, but he started fiddling with the buttons so he wouldn't have to make eye contact. A woman next to the coffee machine started sorting the K-cups.
At this point, a short woman in a unflattering business suit came striding across the floor to meet me.
"Are you Jay?" She asked. I nodded and stuck out my hand. Her handshake was more firm than I've gotten from most men. "I'm Barbara Sloan."
"Hey," I said. "Sorry I'm late. Turns out walking here was a stupid idea."
"You're right," she said. Barbara reminded me of every sorority sister I knew in college, only with a milfy patina. She had dark brown hair down past her shoulders, a pinpoint Oxford shirt, and the obligatory pearl necklace. I suspected she was hiding a respectable rack under the starched cotton. I stole a glance at her left hand. This was before I learned how to be subtle when doing a ring check. She glared at me. She was a thirty-something, single, aging cheerleader, and pissed off about it. "Fuck you, asshole," she said with her eyes.
"Come with me," she said. As she led me down the hall, I wondered what her ass looked like under all that flannel. I also noticed that most of the cubicles on the seventh floor were empty, or filled with packing boxes.
She led me to a desk in one of the empty cubes. There was a stack of paperwork waiting for me. "Fill out these forms. Take your time. I'm not going to be able to deal with you till after lunch."
I scrounged a pen from one of the empty cubes and commenced slogging through the forms. A couple of times, to relieve the tedium, I went over to the mens' room to masturbate.
It was going to be a lonely summer. My girlfriend Christy was interning on a marine biology vessel in the southern Pacific. No phones, no email.
Back in my apartment, I made a mental note to budget my orgasms. I'd pretty much hit my limit at the office. But, as boring as my office was, it was nothing compared to that fucking apartment. So, I found myself sitting in that tiny hot room, listening to the freeway and the TV in the next apartment, watching porn with my dick limp and used up.
TUESDAY
I was wandering the seventh floor on my afternoon break, looking for a new place to jerk off, when I came to the corner office. The door was open. I could see dark wood paneling and hear jazz coming from inside. I peeked in.
There, behind a massive wooden desk, sat a woman. She looked up. She was backlit by a huge window, so I couldn't get a good look at her, but I could feel her examining me. "Who are you?" she asked.
"Um, I'm a summer intern. One of the expendables in Sector 7G." I heard her snort at the Simpson's reference. That was a good sign.
"Come over here and tell me how it's going."
She motioned me over to a leather club chair next to the window. I walked across the room. Her office was enormous. As soon as I crossed the threshold, I felt like I'd been transported out of the grimy glass box and into a private club. Through the two walls of windows, I could see a panorama that included a golf course, the posh suburbs adjoining it, and the city's skyline in the distance. From the seventh floor, the neighborhood seemed less like something from a William Gibson novel. Between the thick Persian carpet and the wood paneling, we were completely isolated from the office outside.
I took my seat. It was the first touch of luxury I'd felt since I'd arrived. I was now on the other side of her desk, so I could get a better look at her. The chair was a few inches shorter than hers, so I found myself looking up at her.
"Marie Fletcher," she said. She didn't rise or offer her hand.
"Jay," I said. "I'm working for Barbara Sloan."
"How do you like that?" She asked. Marie was remarkable. Her face was tanned, with high cheekbones and a strong jaw, surrounded by a mane of blonde hair. She was wearing a mint-green linen suit, with a short skit that showed off her legs. Her white heels complemented the suit and echoed the white silk blouse that she wore under the suit jacket. It was cut low, so that I could see her magnificent tits. I don't think I'd ever reacted that way to a woman in her fifties. She brought to mind Martha Stewart's younger, hotter sister. I didn't need to search for her wedding ring, because it was enormous.
I suddenly realized that I hadn't answered her question.
"That bad, huh?" She said, chuckling. "Barbara can be kind of a bitch."
She spent the next two hours asking me where I grew up, what my parents did, what college was like, how I spent my spare time, what my girlfriend was like, why wasn't she here, and a ton of other personal questions. She was perceptive and empathetic. She revealed nothing about herself, but soon knew everything about me. After about two hours, she rose, clearly intending to walk me to the door. This gave me the first full view of her classic hourglass figure. I didn't know anything about clothes in those days, but it was obvious even to me that she'd had that suit carefully tailored to show off her curves.
She offered me her hand. When I took it, she pulled me up from the chair, bringing us face-to-face for the first time. In those heels, her eyes were level with mine. I gulped. I think she could tell I was disarmed.
"I'm glad you're here," she said, returning to a businesslike tone. "Is the internship meeting your expectations?"
"Well, it's a little slow right now."
