How is that you know when you've crossed that much-lauded line of decency? Is it a feeling that pervades the senses as an instant reaction to some dastardly deed? Is it a subtle hint that flickers at the back of your mind like the insistent buzzing of midday flies? Perhaps it is a dream, a fading wisp of memory that creeps into your thoughts during the dead of night, seeking you out when you are alone and afraid. I'll confess that I've been somewhat consumed by wondering for some days now.
Despite all of that tripe, it seems obvious to me that the realization of dark deeds done is a wholly unique experience for each person, the product of a lifetime of concerns, emotions, and learning that crafts, in and of itself, a perspective fit only for its maker. Knowing that... how could I ever learn what my realization would entail? The short answer is that I couldn't... can't... without realizing it for my self.
I guess that I have no right to challenge stereotype and tradition, so I'll just do like most every storyteller has done and explain myself. My name... god, does it really matter? Just call me Samantha. I'm the bank manager at the local Trust Exchange bank, where I spend the bulk of my waking hours keeping accounts and sighing with malcontent. It's a good job... but I miss the freedom of the road. See, during my twenties I earned my living as a backup dancer for a half-dozen one-hit pop music groups; you know the type. Five guys or one girl will stand at the front of the stage and pretend to sing while a troop of hard bodies shake and gyrate to make the ones at the front look better. Back then I was at the bottom of the top, ready to take on any challenge that came knocking at my door. My hair was a different color every month, my body bulged with lean, sexy muscle, and I was on top of the world.
Sixteen years and two children later, I'm a bank manager. My hair is back to its medium brown, largely uninteresting shade, my muscle isn't as muscular as it once was, and the only world I'm ever on top of belongs to someone else. After the bliss of my divorce (from one of the roadies of back in the day, if you can believe it) I've had to scratch and claw my way back up the ladder of life and now, at age thirty-four, I'm beginning to show signs of slowing down. At least I was, until about a week ago, when the first of my indiscretions occurred.
It was a day just like any other weekday. I had a quick breakfast and a hot shower, over the course of which I had an irritating, but all too common, realization. I was going to work horny, again.
Okay, I know this story just changed gears, but bear with me on this. See... I'm happy to be divorced from Jorge, even though he held onto custody of my son Alexander. I'm pleased as punch, because... even though he's a good father and a good man, Jorge just stopped loving me. Our sex life fizzled out as we lost physical interest in each other... and then we separated. I took our daughter Terra and moved here, to this dull burg, so that I could get a good job and provide for her future and mine. The problem with that... well, the problem is that I just don't have time for dating anymore. Up until a week ago I hadn't had sex in a solid two years, leastwise with someone I cared about, and I found myself growing a little more anxious every day as my job continued to devour the dwindling years of my youth.
Fast forward to one week ago. I had done a fine job of keeping my hands swift and unarousing during my shower, and I had dressed and gotten to work without any problems at all. By this point in my life I had stopped wearing hosiery and seldom was the time that my red/gray/green business skirt concealed a pair of panties, as I had made it a point to do whatever I could to ease my bodily wants so that I wouldn't sink down into the depression of physical loneliness. I had worn thongs for a while, but I never quite found the liking for them... and I had become rather adept at taking care of myself beneath my desk in my office, or wherever that god-forsaken urge would strike me... usually in the middle of something important. Often was the time when my assistant Leah would have to take over one of our weekly associate meetings while I walked down the hall to my office, in those tall heels that hurt my feet only enough to take some of the savor out of the stares my still-shapely bottom drew from the boys. Inevitably I would end up sitting in my cushy little roller-chair with the door locked and two fingers buried in my naked cunt, my radio turned up to drown out the soft moans that I couldn't hold back, and my left hand pinching at my rigid pink nipples through the thin fibers of my work shirt. By the time I'd finished, my whole office smelled of sex... and the process would begin all over again.
That fateful Tuesday was different in only one respect. On that day, one week ago, I had my radio way up and my fingers...well... much the same way. I was so into the pleasure of masturbating at work that I didn't hear the doorknob turning... didn't see the light peeking into my office until it was too late. Leah's mouth hung open in the middle of some word that hadn't had time to form, her twenty-two year old cheeks aflame with the blush of learning something... provocative.
I just stared. I stared until she turned to rush back out the door. I stared until the reality of what had just happened hit me like a right hook.
"Leah," I cried, staying the hand of my young apprentice, "wait, please, let me..." Let me what? Let me explain that I had been caught getting myself off during a staff meeting? I knew that I was just stalling, but I had to keep her from leaving my office until I could figure things out. I stood on shaky knees so that my skirt could fall back over my still-wanting lips, terrified that the redhead might bolt at any moment.
Her hand hesitated at the doorknob. Shook a little.
"Leah, please, I'm begging you. I need this job, please don't tell anyone..." I couldn't believe the way my voice sounded, so pathetic, so whiny, as I took her arm and begged her to stay and listen. "Let me explain, Leah..."
Leah spun around to face me, her eyes slightly wide, her breathing rapid. "I'm sorry Samantha, I didn't know... it's okay, really. I won't tell anyone, I promise." The words tumbled forth from between her painted lips in such a rush that I had barely understood them before she was gone, leaving me to stand stupidly in my office and consume myself with worry. If she told one of the owners about this, she could easily get me fired for violations of conduct. Although I knew Leah to be an honest, hard working girl, I also knew that this encounter put her in a position of great power over me, and all because I had forgotten to lock one stupid door! I knew this was Jorge's fault, somehow, I just hadn't worked out the logic of it yet.
Obviously I wasn't able to finish my business, and so it was with incredible trepidation that I composed myself and returned, somewhat shakily, to the staff meeting in the foyer. My presence hadn't really been missed, as Leah was doing her job as my assistant quite professionally... although I noticed that she didn't once look me in the eye until about two minutes before closing time. I was put off by the silent treatment, but this was largely due to my fear of the choices she might make, choices that could easily cost me my job, my reputation, my whole life.
By the time I arrived home that evening, I was a nervous wreck. I half expected to check my answering machine to hear the gentlemanly voice of Alan Sexton, the owner of the bank, or to hear Leah's crystalline tone, explaining how my actions had earned a nice fat pink slip. To heap irritation onto that, I had been far too worked up by this nasty business to finish getting myself off for the day. I could almost hear my vagina asking what the hell my problem was as I let myself in the side door of my dinky one-car garage, which of course was occupied by Terra's monstrous SUV.
At least I was comforted by the knowledge that I was going to get to spend some quality time with my baby girl that evening. Since she turned that magical, nightmarish age of eighteen, she and I hadn't spent a great deal of time in each other's presence. I tried not to let it bother me, but... she's a sensitive girl, so she picked up on my moods pretty quickly. Together, we had worked out a schedule that would allow us to start spending at least one day a week doing girl stuff together and just generally hanging out. Tonight's agenda included a stop at the movies to see the latest in Hollywood buffoonery, supper at a place of Terra's choosing, and a video game rental (her idea, believe me) so that she could have something to do in the morning when I left for work again.
