It had been another busy day at the office. I was sitting at my desk in the bright open-plan office I had at Michelson Accountancy and Tax Consultants, Inc. in downtown Philadelphia. It was May already and the weather was heating up. The office was crowded with people as people wanted to finish up their work, since it was Friday afternoon and the weekend was coming. Tempers were flared and I wasn't really in the mood for any more stress and I couldn't think of anything but the end of the day and the time I could get out of here. My desk was covered with papers, plus a desktop computer, a laptop, a desk calculator, a telephone, my cellphone and a potted plant. Just then, the mainline phone rang once.
"Who's this now?" I said, irritated. I picked up the phone. "Bridget Cashman, Marketing Manager."
Marcia, the receptionist, answered. " Bridget, David Griffiths on line one."
"What does HE want? OK, put him through."
The line clicked. "Hi, Bridget, this is David. Listen, I won't be able to get the new logo to you by Monday morning. Something's come up and our firm's been inundated with new work, so there's a backlog."
"Oh, really?" I said, sarcastically.
"We think we can clear it by Wednesday, so estimated time of delivery will be Wednesday afternoon earliest, possibly Thursday morning."
"WHAT! I need that new logo -- I've presenting it to the CEO at 10:00am on Monday!"
"I'm sorry, Bridget, but we're unlikely to get the new design finalized until then because it needs to be signed up by my superior and he's away until Tuesday at least."
"Oh, great! Thanks for nothing! This is the third time you've done this to me, David!"
"It's all these new contracts -"
"Oh, so, your firm prioritizes new customers, while old customers have their stuff relegated to the back burner until you can get around to it, yeah?"
"It's not like that, Bridget -"
"It IS like that, David -- you just admitted it yourself. Your company is so eager for new customers, yet it's the fact that you just don't care about old customers that you have to keep getting new ones. Let's face it, David -- THAT'S IT, ISN'T IT!"
"Bridget, calm down -"
"Don't tell me to calm down. Your firm has screwed us over so many times already -- delays in deliveries, wrong specifications, endless pointless meetings about tweaking designs -- HOW DIFFICULT IS IT? It's just a simple logo! Why can't you ever deliver?"
"Bridget, I -"
"No, forget it! That's it! I'm speaking with Purchasing first thing Monday about your company's contract and request to cancel it."
"No, Bridget!"
"You CAN'T deliver, you CAN'T meet expectations -- what am I supposed to tell the CEO? What can I show him on Monday?"
"Well, I -"
"Right, I'm canceling this order. I'll talk to Purchasing about your contract on Monday but as for this logo, cancel it. I'll find someone else."
"Who's going to deliver at such short notice?"
"OBVIOUSLY NOT YOU!" I paused for thought. "I'll find a freelancer. There are plenty around and they're probably cheaper."
"What about quality?"
"I don't think you're qualified to speak on that, David, huh? Cancel it. I'll confirm it in writing later."
"Oh, Bridget -" He sounded crestfallen, but it was his own fault.
"Sorry, David, but you've done this too often. I can't afford to wait. The meeting's important and I must have something to show. Now get off this line because I'm busy and I can't spend all this time talking. Catch you later." I hung up.
Stuff him. David Griffiths was just another middle-aged, bearded, overweight, misogynistic know-it-all trying to screw me over. I had a sneaking suspicion that he was doing this because he didn't respect me. Griffiths was mildly well-known in the industry locally and could do some good work but he always seemed to do it for clients who just happened to be male. Nobody seemed to have trouble with him except me, and I would have ignored it if it hadn't been for that story in the paper about him feeling up a pole dancer at an after-party event for a contract signing between the company he worked for and a major new client that had just set up in town.
I sighed. It's Friday, I'm not in the mood and I want to go home. What time is it? 3:30, according to my watch. An hour and a half to go.
Five o'clock came and I couldn't wait to get out. "See ya, guys!" I waved to my staff as I slung my coat over my arm, grabbed my handbag and left.
"See you, Bridget! Have a great weekend!" cried Mark, one of the guys in my department.
"Thanks!" Then out the door I went, thank goodness.
Outside the building, I hailed a taxi to my apartment. As I was being driven along, I sat on the back seat and had a think about what Griffiths said.
Bummer, I would need to find a freelancer fast. I had spent the remainder of the afternoon at work Googling possible freelance candidates, in between the one hundred and one other things I had to do. I hadn't found much but had been intrigued by an art exhibition going on at the local community college tomorrow morning, starting at eight.
I quite like art. I got sort of interested when I was younger, after taking an art minor during my Bachelor's degree, before giving up the subject when I had done my Master's. Since then, I had been working on my career, working my way up through three marketer positions for various local firms before getting this job for Michelson's at thirty-three. Now I was Marketing Manager and making a decent salary.
I'm thirty-seven already! I'd celebrated at a really nice Italian restaurant two months ago with my staff, and there had been some questions about when I was gonna settle down. I had joked at the time that they were starting to sound like my mother -- 'Bridget, dear, why don't you get yourself a nice boyfriend before it's too late?" The fact was, I had had a few high school crushes, maybe three or so, then four or five non-serious boyfriends during college, then a semi-serious brief thing that lasted four months during my Master's. Since I was twenty-four and finished my studies, I had been on eight or nine dates with a variety of guys. In my twenties, they had been fun, party animals, but basically shallow, with no conversational skills, drinking too much and being useless in bed.
When I hit thirty, I became super-horny all of a sudden. I was too old by then to care about looking like a "good girl", so had hung out in bars now and again, which had led to some one-night-stands and short-but-exciting flings with totally unsuitable men, all beer, pizza, muscles and tattoos, who had pounded me senseless in bed before leaving in the morning. That had been a short-term fix, yet once I had achieved a management position at work, I had focused on work, perhaps a little too much, since I had neglected my workouts, eaten convenience food and had now piled on some pounds. My once-lithe frame was fleshy and out of shape, which did me no favors in the romance department, plus once I had hit thirty-five, guys had avoided me, figuring that a woman of my age was gonna be all "tick-tock-tick-tock" and want to settle down at lightning speed, with a ring on my finger, a house and three bratty kids. Huh!
The taxi pulled up outside my brownstone, where I had a small apartment on the third floor. I paid the fare and made my way inside and upstairs. Turning the key in the lock, I walked inside with a sigh, dumped my handbag on a dining table chair and headed for the bedroom.
Stuff it, let's take a shower -- I'm tired. Looking in the closet mirror, I saw a tired, 37-year-old woman, with long, straggly blond hair; my longish face had two big, brown eyes and a medium-full mouth, painted with a reddish-brown lipstick. I took off my navy-blue suit jacket and impatiently yanked off the scarf. I undid the buttons on my blouse and ripped it off my torso, revealing a slightly damp, beige bra. I felt slightly sweaty as I reached around the back to unclip it. It fell to the floor, revealing my fleshy 34D breasts. They had lost their shape from how they looked in my early twenties, had perhaps move southwards by about an inch, but they were pleasingly large, the wide areolae surrounding my small, nub-like nipples smooth and light pink compared to the expanse of white flesh adjacent to them. Removing my skirt, I stood in my underwear, which was also beige (I like matching bra and panties -- not matching looks cheap, I think). My stomach and abdomen was soft and squashy but no muffintop or love handles yet, thank goodness. My thighs were slightly thick, but that was good because my legs were long and still elegant. I viewed my body in the mirror. Not great, but not bad, either.
Heading for the shower, I stepped into the bathtub, yanked the shower curtain across and turned on the water. It was luxurious and refreshing, as I lathered the shower gel over my body. My fingers slid across my breasts and nipples, and I was surprised to feel a slight burst of desire. It was just a brief split-second, but it was simultaneously zingy and wanton. Suddenly desirous, I massaged my breasts, feeling them and mashing them between my fingers. I undulated my body, working myself up for several minutes, before my right hand ventured south. My neatly trimmed pussy felt soft as my fingertips stroked over my pubic mound to reach the nub of my clitoris. Impatient, I began rubbing it furiously, the desire I felt and pent-up frustrations of the day spurring me on. I wanted release, and my back arched and my mouth opened as I looked up at the ceiling. Finally, a burst of pleasure erupted, my thighs quivering as a bolt of pleasure shot up my spine. Briefly plunging two fingers into my pussy, I rode them for a few seconds as I took my well-deserved pleasure.
That done, I finished showering and got out. Wrapping a towel around me, I walked back into the bedroom and plonked myself down on the end of the bed. The warmth from the clitoral orgasm made me feel better and my head felt clearer and more at peace. When I was younger, I was more orgasmic and would stimulate myself for longer and with more abandon. That was a long time ago, though, when I was more confident about my body. Now, just a clitoral orgasm would do and I was too tired to bother doing anything else. I decided to make dinner, watch TV for a few hours, then get some sleep.
The next day was Saturday. I woke up at around 6:30am, ate some cereal and grabbed some coffee. I was scrolling through a news site, then remembered the art exhibition. It started at eight but I didn't want to show up as soon as the doors opened. I had nothing else going on that day, so decided to get there at around 9:30. In the meantime, I did some laundry and pottered around the apartment. I thought about what I would ask when I got there. I needed to find a freelancer fast for the meeting on Monday, so once I got there, I would have to nail someone down by lunchtime. I figured if I could get whoever said yes to run up a few logo designs by tonight or tomorrow morning, I could have the final product done by late afternoon tomorrow. If necessary, I could pay the person cash, ask for a receipt, then put it through Accounts first thing Monday to get a rebate on my next pay packet. Great.
