Crunch Time Monday

MONDAY

Samuel Hall almost jumped out of his skin when someone pinched his butt in the coffee line at Starbucks.

Honestly, he didn't know what to do about it at the time. While his posterior was perfectly functional when it came to filling out the seat of his charcoal business slacks or, say... sitting, it was hardly the magnetic type of male rump that garnered attention and never a cheeky squeeze from the fairer sex.

...at least, he

hoped

it was someone of a female persuasion taking liberties with his back end. The coffee shop had been bustling with morning foot traffic, and Sam had been too stricken to face his handsy admirer before he was called to receive his order.

Now he stood in the foyer of the Radley building waiting for the elevator, holding a loaded cardboard coffee holder in one hand, feeling perplexed while rubbing a sore spot on his left ass cheek with the other.

"You okay, Mister Hall?" Henry, the confusingly titled 'business concierge,' asked from where he sat firmly lodged behind the lobby desk. All bushy gray mustache and arduous beer belly stuffed into a rumpled suit as he slowly fossilized in his ergonomic roller chair. "Ain't got the piles, have ya? Hang on, think I got a cream for that..."

"I'm fine, really..." Sam hammered the call button as the ghastly old man bent like a rusty hinge to rummage through the desk drawers. "No need to bother yourself."

"It's in here somewhere--Holy smokes!"

The crusty geezer's attention was thankfully snatched away from elusive rectum ointments as a divine vision of beauty strolled in through the revolving doors, one long, perfectly-formed leg crossing in front of the other, as though the balding olive carpet was a Parisian runway.

She was stunning. Tall, elegant, and whip-thin in that effortless way that hinted at strict dieting, a lifetime gym membership, and a Powerball win in the genetic lottery. Utterly beguiling with full, flowing hair shining all the shades of autumn framing her exquisite cover girl face.

The mystery woman stood out like a brilliant diamond amidst the drab surroundings of an aged office building with the perpetual "This space for rent" sign hung beside the spinning entryway. She was swathed in a strapless, backless cocktail dress of black shimmering fabric, matching ankle strapped, peep-toe high heels, and a tiny leather purse dangling from a threadlike gold chain looped over one bare shoulder.

"Uh... welcome, Miss." Henry croaked, unsticking himself from the chair to stand and straighten his tie. "Do you need help finding--"

"You're a doll for offering, but no thank you. I have a pressing appointment with the Wesner family law firm. Hold the lift, please."

Her southern accent was smooth as dark velvet, and the words took a moment to register for Sam, who tore his eyes away from her swaying hips to turn and find the elevator doors about to shut on his recently mauled ass.

He hadn't heard the ding of its arrival in his distracted state but recovered quickly enough to wedge his free arm into the closing gap and wrestle it open again. The infernal machine was as uncooperative as ever, but Sam managed not to spill his tray of coffees in the struggle.

"Bless you, kind sir." The walking dream purred as she glided into the small compartment. Her slinky dress had a long slit in the side that exposed an abundance of pale, silky thigh. "It's so rare to meet a true gentleman nowadays. Seventh floor, please."

"What? Oh, yeah. No problem."

Sam was trying his best not to stare.

Not to stare at her firm, juicy breasts and how they filled out the sweetheart neckline of her sheer party dress like two alabaster grapefruits wrapped in midnight satin. Not to smell the way her sweet perfume--floral as honeysuckle blossoms--pervaded the confined space of the world's slowest elevator.

Not to notice the seductive smile spreading on her rose petal lips when she met his wandering gaze from beneath luxuriously long, drooping lashes or the slick of perspiration beading on her ivory skin.

She was hot, and not only in the sense that she was incredibly attractive. Sam could feel the baking body heat from her sparsely clad figure raising the ambient temperature of their shared confines as the lift drowsily chimed off the passing levels at the pace of a crippled snail.

Sam tugged at his collar in the stifling air. "Are you okay, Miss--"

"Stinton. Missus Deborah Stinton. Soon to be Miss Deborah Tanner again if this meeting goes well." The breathtaking brunette slid closer as she spoke. Pressing her slender hip against his own. "I admit that I'm nervous and must look a frightful mess. Caught the bastard cheating on me, can you believe it? A dreadfully unpleasant business, all in all, but soon to be unattached again. No need to worry about silly ol' me."

She rested her fingertips gently on Sam's wrist as she stared up at him through half-lidded eyes. A clear flirtation. She wore jangling gold bangles; her nails were long, manicured, and painted a deep plum color. He could feel the feverish warmth of her skin in that small point of contact.

"Excuse me, Deborah. I'm Sam..." It seemed rude not to return the courtesy of an introduction. "...and you have my condolences, but I meant to ask if you are feeling well?"

"Fine, Fine. Never better. You're such a sweetie for asking." Deborah drawled, batting his forearm playfully as she drew in closer. Thrusting out her firm, happy breasts. "Just a touch of allergies brought on by the blooming season. As a matter of fact, I'm beginning to feel single and ready to mingle. My friends call me Debbie, by the way. Are you feeling friendly, Sam?"

Sam would have backed up if he had any room to maneuver. The gorgeous, soon-to-be divorcee was coming on strong and broadcasting some apparent signals.

He held the coffee holder in front of himself like a caffeinated shield as the aforenamed Debbie closed in on him with all the grace of a savannah predator stalking prey.

He wasn't sure what to do in this situation. Sam wasn't a ladies' man by any measure. He was an accountant--a

junior

accountant--with the skinny nerd awkwardness and wool knit sweater vest to prove it.

No woman would ever fantasize about running their hands through his unruly sweep of ash-blonde hair. Nor would they hang on his every word as he expounded the financial benefits of declaring work expenses as tax deductions.

The steamiest evening Sam had ever spent with a member of the opposite sex was an after-hours inventory audit of a custom cabinetry business with his standoffish co-worker Claire. That was last summer, and the shop's air conditioning had been broken.

So what was this picture of womanly loveliness thinking? Pressing him, of all people, back against the faded wood paneling with a lascivious glint in her wanton eyes...

"I... I, um, please forgive me, Deborah--"

"Debbie. Call me Debbie, Sam." The autumn-haired vixen purred, leaning in to give him a better view down the snowy valley of her cleavage and inhaling the wafting vapors rising from the cardboard coffee cups. "Mmmm, I love the smell of freshly brewed beans in the morning. Almost as much as..."

Sam waited, rooted in place as Debbie paused, pretty little nose scrunching up and her charming expression frozen for a second.

"...ACHOO!!"

She blasted out the mother of all sneezes, spraying straight down his front, followed by an embarrassed sniffle and an abashed grimace.

"Pardon me, dear... like I said, springtime allergies."

Thankfully, the lift chose that moment to grind to a stop, and the doors creaked open on the fifth floor, providing Sam with a polite means to escape.

"Feel better soon, Deborah, and I wish you all the best in your legal proceedings." He said in a formal, if slightly rushed, tone, sideling around her and into the hallway as respectfully as he could manage. "It was a pleasure to meet you."

"Sam, wait! You still need to give me your number. How will I find you?!"

________________

"It's fine, right?" Tammy asked, hand hovering over her double-shot mochaccino with whipped cream and vanilla bean. "She wasn't contagious or anything?"

"You can't catch allergies, dummy," Claire said, taking a deep sip from her

completely

different double frappuccino with vanilla infusion and cream topper. "They're immune reactions, not diseases. Read a book once in a while, why don't you?"

"Nobody is allowed to get sick." The office manager Sadie announced sternly, blowing on her morning cappuccino with frothed milk and two sugars. "March is crunch time for us. Lots of work to do and zero time for runny noses."

Sam was still massaging sanitizer into his hands as the small office of Chandler's Accounting Services quenched their daily caffeine fix. One solitary figure lurked, overlooked in the background. Stooped shoulders weighed down by thick layers of obstructive clothing--a shirt under a cardigan under a hoodie--as though Spring hadn't just sprung.

He picked up the last coffee and approached her with an understanding smile. "One latte, made with almond milk and topped with coconut cream. For everyone's favorite intern."

"Thanks, Sam." Zoey's grateful smile was brief and tentative, disappearing behind a tangled swish of chocolate brown hair as she shyly dropped her bespectacled gaze to inspect the cup. "Are you certain it's vegan? If there's any dairy in it, I can't touch it."

"I've got you covered, Zee." Sam gave her shoulder a short pat of reassurance, about as much physical contact as his chronically timid co-worker could handle. "We have to look out for each other down here on the bottom rung."

It didn't need to be said that working in an office full of women had been an adjustment for Sam. Navigating the hitherto uncharted waters of gender dynamics in a competitive workspace was initially daunting. That was until the geeky bookkeeper had been sat down by Tammy and Claire. The persistently bickering pair set aside their friendly enmity long enough to firmly instruct him to "chill out" and stop staring at his leather loafers whenever they looked his way.

...and bring them their fancy-ass coffee. Junior staff members still had to pay their dues after all.

Chandler Accounting Services was a relatively small player compared to the larger firms on Charlestown's financial stage. But the pay was good, all the neat numbers in columns suited his pedantic disposition, and the work environment was generally friendly... if a tad heavy on the estrogen.

Sam actually

liked

working there, so the regular morning coffee run wasn't a bother and kept him in good standing with his colleagues.

If only his non-existent love life were so easy to figure out.

"Um, Sam..." Zoey's voice was barely louder than a whisper. "I think you missed a spot. You've got a little something..."

He followed the line of her eyes and looked down at himself. A small slimy blob was stuck to his necktie, just above the v-neck of his sweater vest. It was green and wobbly.

"Dammit! I mean--thanks, Zoey. I'll be in the bathroom."

________________

"There's definitely something going around," Claire announced, walking into the office with a takeaway bag. "We were grabbing lunch at that Chinese joint on Market Street, and there wasn't a dry nose in the place."

"I keep telling you it's just hayfever, moron." Tammy followed her in, munching on an egg roll. "Lots of people get it in Spring. Every magnolia in the state is flowering."

"Use the hand sanitizer! ALL of the hand sanitizer. Nobody is getting sick this month!"

The shout came from Sadie's office. The only partition in an otherwise open-plan layout. Sam had heard of architects utilizing negative space to inform interior design, but whoever constructed the Radley building in the way-back-when had clearly gotten carried away.

The location was good--South of Broad with a hypothetical view of the bay--but the twelve-story office block was a boxy, red brick edifice to the rejection of feng shui.

Chandler Accounting Services was housed on the fifth floor with painted-shut timber slide windows and temperamental fluorescent lights flickering over the five cheap, laminate desks surrounded by banks of ancient filing cabinets.

"Got you the chow mein special, Sammy." With a wink, Claire popped the plastic container of noodles atop a pile of manila folders on his desk. "And a vegetable fried rice for the bunny. No egg. I double-checked."

Sam blinked owlishly as she wandered over to Zoey's empty desk and dropped off the paper bag. The mousy brunette was preoccupied in the steel corridors of file storage. Presumably nesting.

Did Clair just call him 'Sammy' and wink?

He was aware of the senior accountant's femininity--and that of all his fellow number crunchers--in much the same way he was aware that the food in cooking magazines looked appetizing but was outside his limited culinary abilities to attain.

Best ignored while Sam subsisted on a steady diet of frozen dinners and lukewarm masturbation.

But that surprise wink--and the memory of his unexplainable encounter in the elevator that morning--brought the ladies around him zooming back into focus as though someone had wiped the fog off his mental camera lens.

Sam was surrounded by women. Real-life females. Each one appealing in their own fashion.

Claire's hips and ass were a bit chubby, sure, but they rounded out the bottom half of her plaid pants suit nicely, and her beautiful golden brown hair swung in a thick French braid down to the middle of her back.

Tammy's desk sat kitty-corner to Sam's own, and the spunky Asian used her smartphone as a mirror to apply dark liner around her almond eyes. A twenty-something go-getter who was delicate in build but big on attitude.

Where was her family originally from again? Taiwan... Thailand... it was impossible to tell from her South Carolina twang.

"Is the aircon on the fritz again?" Tammy complained, fanning the neckline of her slim-fitting navy blouse. She caught Sam looking and gifted him a small smile. Most unusual. "Sam, would you check the thermostat for us? I'm buried up to my neck in the Bronson account right now."

Sam would have conceded to the request immediately, except he was acutely aware that, at that moment, his dick was painfully erect. A hard, throbbing presence tenting the pressed cloth of his sensible slacks.

It represented an unfamiliar challenge to the ordinarily compliant young pencil-pusher.

"You could at least pretend to look busy, wise-ass." Claire sniffed as she traipsed over to the yellowing plastic dial beside the door and twisted it to the lowest setting. "See? Was that so difficult, or did you want us to fan you with palm fronds, too?"

"I wouldn't say no to the offer if Sam was willing..."

Sinking lower in his chair, Sam zoned out their continuous banter and tried to focus on the work on his screen.

Nice dependable numbers. Income and expenses. Nothing hot or stiff about them.

A bead of perspiration formed at the end of his nose and dripped onto his frantically typing hands.

________________

Zoey knew people didn't pay much attention to her. She was habitually shy. Compulsively quiet. Wholly forgettable.

Nobody would have guessed she was flicking her butterbean behind the shadowy stacks of dusty filing cabinets on the farthest side of the office.

She was a grand master of the silent 'O'. A virtuoso of stealthy climaxes. The pinnacle of private, prurient pleasure achieved only a dozen feet away from her unsuspecting peers.

They only saw the nervous dormouse. The anxious wallflower who did as she was told and never bit back. A pudgy nobody who dressed in frumpy dresses and baggy hoodies, eschewing human interaction as though it were toxic waste.

So it was with a complex concoction of shame, a naughty thrill, and lip-chewing excitement that Zoey squatted behind a row of cabinets and slid her fingers into the waistband of her white cotton panties.

"Mmmmm~..."

This was incredibly daring, even for her. Once everyone else was verifiably occupied, a quick, button-mouthed diddle in the restroom was usually enough to see her through the workday. Sneakers shoved against the stall door for added security as she played with her pearl and sought illicit release.

It was her hidden self. Zoey's secret identity. Her degenerate alter-ego had surfaced sometime in her late pubescence. Those days when she would wait until her parents left for work to rub her teen pussy on all manner of objects and surfaces about the family home.

Against the side of the bathroom tub that curved just so and provided such serene friction. On the legs of chairs in the dining room, where friends and guests would sit at meal times. Upon the corner of her dresser, which parted her youthful folds and ground her budding clit against the polished edges. Or cushions of the living room couch, tucking her pelvis back and rolling her hips to drag her dewy sex across the coarse upholstery.

But today was different. She was like a cat in heat, out of control.

Her dripping desire was constant, and her pussy remained at a hot smolder that wouldn't die down. Zoey had visited the bathroom twice already and squeezed out three lightning-fast quickies upon the porcelain throne. Any more prolonged absences and folks would think she had an upset stomach.

...and that would draw attention, the last thing the closet exhibitionist wanted.

Her square frame glasses sat crooked on her face, and she gnawed on a whitened knuckle to muzzle a guttural groan as the first two fingers parted her puffy folds. Her nails were chewed down to nervous nubs, so no caution was required as they dipped into her steamy wetness and then dragged it over her swollen pink bud.

"Hhhmmmnnff~!"

Zoey felt warm. Terribly warm and tingly all over. Her sun-averse skin prickled under all the layers of dark clothing. She overheard Tammy saying something about checking the thermostat, and that sounded like a capital idea as sweat dotted her brow. The office air was close and humid, far too muggy for the early time of the year.

Her chin dropped to her chest, and chocolate hair curtained her burning face as she chased sweet relief from the simmering need churning her virginal loins. Knowing that, at any moment, one of her co-workers could wander over to check on her and catch her in the guilty act.

Only to find their meek and mild Zoey with her hand up her skirts, rubbing one out in the corner like a dirty little horndog.

Who would it be? Sadie, frowning down on her with deep disapproval? Tammy and Claire breaking into scandalized giggles? Sam, frozen in stunned disbelief as she lewdly exposed her moist nethers to him and creamed all over her thrusting fingers...

"Nyaa~!"

A small squeak escaped her parted lips as Zoey crested her carnal peak, wobbling thighs clamped together around her buried hand as she toppled back against a steel cabinet, slid sideways, and curled up into a quivering ball on the musty carpet.

She remained like that for a few blissful moments before the appetizing smell of Chinese food reached her flaring nostrils. Salt and umami. Her belly growled.

That was when Zoey realized she was famished. Ravenous. Suddenly, her mouth was watering for the bag of takeaway Claire had left on her desk.

Licking her fingers clean and hurriedly straightening her disheveled attire, Zoey hoped they remembered to order her something vegan...

________________

To Be Continued...