Under The Covers

by Baker, Max Q.

  She gave Robby the opportunity to save his face as she lied in her weighted, monotone voice, ripe with sarcasm. “Fine. You got me. I am an International Stealth Bowling Pro on the sly. Now my deepest secret has been revealed. Oh me, oh my.”

  Robby pointed to everyone. “See there? I told ya. I knew it. Thought she could throw a fast one over me. But no. I remain unbeaten in my own League.”

  Amane repeated. “Yes. Unbeaten in your own League.”

  Bo hugged Amane, whispering, "Thank you."

  Amane whispered back, “You owe me.”

  ***

  Later that night, a group decision was reached that each time we went out, a different person should get to choose something special to do that night, to keep it fair and interesting. Time-Sensitive events, like concerts or movie premiers, took priority.

  It was democratic, and we hoped it would add some variety to our outings.

  It also meant that Robby could only choose once every seven times. That was considered a plus.

  II.

  Writing this memoir was therapy for me.

  Publishing it was retaliation.

  [ The DollHouse ]

  Some parts of my story span a length of time and largely occur in the background. This is one of them. It doesn’t make sense to describe each moment as it occurred. This is a summary.

  After I discovered that my Ho Shoe website had been collecting a significant number of hits, I did a quick search for advertising options, and optimized the site to generate some potential income.

  The nice thing was that the site was already complete and active. Apparently, it was even established in its own right. All I had to do was to give it the chance to work for me. Which I did. And it wasn't long before I started getting small checks from my efforts, which felt good. It inspired me to try harder.

  My master inspiration was to design an expanded sister site that let people create cartoony versions of themselves, even allowing them to import a photo of their face from their mobile device. I had Bo help me with that since I obviously couldn't do it with my Dumb-As-Fuck.

  Where "Ho Shoes" had focused on that one element - shoes – the new site featured the entire wardrobe: pants, skirts, shirts, shoes, blouses, sweaters, coats, hats, and gloves. It let people pick their favorites, dressing their digital doll. Once they were done, they clicked a button for an assessment with arrows and a summary screen that told them what it all said about themselves. Like before, all my results were pure – or mostly - bullshit.

  The new site was supposed to be sexy, goofy, and fun; not scientific. And it amazed me that I was able to do all this work with my Wal-Martyr special, with half the internet restricted from me.

  But I did.

  To my surprise, it wasn't long before "The DollHouse," as I had named the sister site, started adding to my meager, but growing, revenue stream.

  So I began to reach out to other sites and companies for potential endorsements. I added an option to try to reverse-engineer a particular look. I offered pre-fabricated styles to choose from and then allowed the user to create a wardrobe from items that fit the theme. To make it more useful and profitable, various clothes store affiliates now had direct links to our suggestions where the visitor could buy those products from my page; and I got a small commission if they did.

  I figured if things kept moving in this direction, I could dump the dumb-as-fuck, and finish painting my car. Life was looking good. It also gave me more pocket change for going out. Hanging out with the gang was expensive. We spent a mess of time in restaurants, bars, and clubs, and that added up. Plus, a lot of the time, I covered Robby.

  But all of that happened in the background in the coming months.

  The next thing I needed was a real job.

  [ HeadHunter ]

  Mags had convinced me that gas station attendant was not my calling.

  She said I was bright, creative, and had good marketing intuition.

  She said it was time that I believed in myself and found a job that made sense for a college kid who wanted to go into Communications. Luckily, she reminded me, I had a direct line to a professional Headhunter. Her.

  I asked Mags if she could find a job for me that used some of my skills, and paid more.

  She made an appointment for me to meet her at her office.

  It wasn't a big place, and it only had a few people in comparison to the number of empty desks.

  We sat down at one of the computer terminals, and she started getting information about me: education, interests, work experience, skills, and typing speed. What did I want to do? How far was I willing to travel? Part time or permanent? Was there a pay scale that I needed? (I asked if 'shitloads more than a gas-station' was an option. She smiled slightly, said 'yes' and typed something in.)

  Throughout the process, I was very impressed with her. She was sharp and professional. Her eyes were focused and keen, not the drowsy dreamy preoccupied look that she usually had when we were out with the guys. Her dress was sharp and immaculate without being sleazy. There was no surplus or gratuitous cleavage showing. Her makeup was underplayed, and her hair tied neatly in a bun. The only hint of the Mags I knew was her shoes, which - while being amazingly conservative - had a single diamond adornment dangling from the side, like a vampire carrying her native soil.

  As she began compiling the data and running it against her listings, for preliminary results, I complimented her on all of those things. "I'm pretty impressed with you here. You're like a whole different Mags. It makes me realize there's another much deeper side of you. And I like them both. I reckon this look might be even hotter than your usual one."

  Her printer was flashing red, out of paper. She stopped typing and bit her lip, thinking for a moment. "If I'm going to print this out, I need some forms from the storage room, but they're on the top shelf. Would you be a godsend and help get them for me?"

  It had sounded innocent enough when she asked me, and I said yes, but the minute we were in the storage room, I walked to the center of the room, a few steps ahead of her, and she shut the door behind us, locking it from the inside.

  I heard the click and turned to see her staring at me. "Told you I was going to jump your bones."

  I could hear "Do I Wanna Know" by Arctic Monkeys pounding muffled from a loud radio on the other side of the wall, a space occupied by a warehouse. I liked that song.

  "What?" I was mortified. We were in a small hot room in the back of her office. There were other people in the front. "Here? Now?"

  She strutted up to me, and pushed me against a wall. "You always act around me like you've never had sex before, and I just know that's not true, buttercup."

  "How do you know that?" I admit I was scared. I was afraid she would get fired because of me. And I was afraid I would end up on YouTube and ruin my chances of getting any job in the future. And I was thinking of Bo, and wondering what the hell I was doing.

  "I know my men," she said.

  She swooped in like a predator. I was outclassed and knew that resistance was futile. I was nervous and unsure of myself. It wasn't exactly a public place, but it was close enough. Anyone might hear us. And anyone with a key could walk in on us. I tried to talk her out of it, but she covered my mouth with hers, as she whispered, “Doesn’t that make it a little more exciting?”

  Her hands massaged my shoulders; gently, at first, but then rough as she dragged her silky warm lips down the side of my cheek, kissing my softly. When she reached my neck, she nibbled with her teeth.

  I was standing helpless, foolish, as if I still thought I was getting out of there untouched. My hands were awkwardly in the air behind her back as she raised her knee between my legs and started to massage my crotch.

  I put my hands on her back and hugged, feeling like a beginner.

  Her tongue found my mouth, and met my own tongue as she stared deeply into my eyes; one of her hands was unbuttoning my shirt with speed and precision.

  I untucked her shirt and let my
hands slide across her back, then down, cupping her ass. I reached lower till I found the hem of her skirt and hiked it up.

  She reached down into a small pocket sewn into the front of her cotton panties, and she pulled out a condom wrapper, handing it to me. “You’re going to need this. Fast,” she told me in a breathy whisper. “Put it on.”

  I took it from her, while she unbuckled my pants.

  I tugged at her panties, they were already wet, and let them fall to the floor. She stepped out of them.

  I was hard and ready, and her hands were making me hot as I pulled the rubber out of the wrapper and slid it on. Somehow, I was still thinking about Bo, and feeling strangely guilty, but it was too late to stop this now, and I could not think of one good reason that I should.

  Moments later, she lifted herself up into my arms and turned me so that her back was against the wall.

  I pushed inside, and heard her moan as she grabbed my hair and rubbed her hands through it.

  Hard and fast, I slid into and out of Mags, holding it when I was deep, pinning her hard against the wall. I lifted her body up and pushed until she was speared to the end of my shaft.

  I could feel her flexing her muscles inside, tightening around me, juicy.

  I opened her blouse in between thrusts. Her bra hooked in the front. All I could do was unlatch it, so that she fell free, full and beautiful.

  “W2,” she whispered in my ear, licking at my lobe, nibbling, biting, scratching at my back. “Harder,” she begged.

  I let us fall gracefully to the floor, and positioned her on her side, while I slid up behind her, lifting her leg. The moment I had fallen out was torture. She grabbed me and guided me back inside, and I thrust harder and deeper than before, the two of us breathless, moaning in syncopation.

  She could feel I was struggling, trying not to release. Through wet glossy eyes, she encouraged me. “Let it out. Let it go. Shoot your cum deep inside.” Her hands touched herself as I rode harder.

  Wearing a condom made it impossible to shoot my cum deep inside her, but her voice and words turned me on more than I could handle. I felt the spasm of release, shivering and bucking my head high up into her cervix.

  The two of us gradually melted into a soft embrace, kissing and hugging, smiling while gazing longingly into one another’s eyes.

  After a moment, we started dressing, and Mags awkwardly confessed, “I just want you to know, that this is not something I normally do. I don’t have sex at work. This was all you. There’s something about you that drives me crazy, and I just needed this moment, right now. I needed to see if we worked well together, and we do. This is only the beginning. If you want it to be.”

  Her words had a strange effect on me. Her words were a confession and an invitation.

  But I hadn’t known Mags for very long and I didn’t know her very well. I knew how she dressed, drank, flirted, and how she stuck her hand down my pants and examined me the first night we met. Therefore, it was hard for me to believe completely what she was saying. It was a good story, that she had never done this before, but it felt more like wishful thinking on my part than a likely reality. She could say what she wanted to say, and I could believe what I wanted to believe, but neither way made it true, if it wasn’t. It was her words alone; against my thought, my doubts, my speculation and insecurity. Some truths were impossible to prove. And so were some lies.

  Not sure how to respond, I said, “Yep.” And gave her another kiss on the lips.

  ***

  When we were dressed, we made sure we each looked presentable again. Then she pointed to a spot on the top shelf of a supply rack, and said, "You see that package of pre-printed forms covered in plastic?"

  "I surely do."

  "Could you reach up and get those for me, please?"

  Amused, I asked, "You really needed them? I thought that was just a ploy to get me in the back room."

  "It's called multi-tasking, W2. Once we get you a Professional job, you'll understand what that's all about."

  We went back to her desk, her professional demeanor completely restored. I glanced around the room nervously. Other people - employees and clients - looked at us as if they had heard our encounter, but no one said anything. Mags was cool about it. As far as she was concerned, all we had done was get the package; and anyone who thought differently could go to hell.

  We sat back at her desk and she loaded the paper tray.

  Once she had finished printing out the forms, she put them in a manila envelope and told me, "I'll begin making some calls and see what opportunities I can find, for interviews. You can expect to hear from me soon. In the meantime, don't think twice to call me, if you want? Ok? I think we have a lot of potential here." She patted the manila file with my information. "You have a lot more experience than you give yourself credit, and I am sure there are much better opportunities waiting for you in your future. I'd like to help you with that."

  I nodded, wondering if all her innuendos were deliberate, or if she were really just talking about finding me a job. Her seamless transformation from the professional Mags to the intimate Mags had blown me away. "Thank you very kindly for your help," I told her. “I much appreciate it.”

  She had smuggled me into her dark side, her delirious red velvet bed, and I was too weary to resist.

  "My pleasure, W2." She bit her lip again, and smirked flirtatiously. "Thanks for coming in today."

  [ Mags - The Start of Something New ]

  That night, I met the gang for drinks as usual. Mags hadn't arrived yet, so I was curious if anyone else had ever seen her at work.

  "I met Mags at her office today, to try to help me find a real job. Have any of you ever been out with Mags before, like, at her work? She's a totally different person. Impressive. Professional. Precise. The difference how she presents herself with us and at the office was mind-boggling. Amazing. I was completely blown away."

  "Blown away? That I can believe," quipped Chris.

  I hesitated, not wanting to share the sexier side of our story. "No. Not like that. She was professional, and so ... un-Mags-like. Night and Day. I ..." struggled to find the words "Couldn't even believe it was her."

  I noticed Bo was looking down, facing away. She grabbed Ryan's hand and squeezed it once. He put his hand on her shoulder, and gave her a gentle hug, oblivious to her expression. It was as if she didn't want to hear me saying something sensitive and complimentary toward Mags, but she had no right to hold that against me.

  Ryan admitted simply, “I’ve seen her at work. Yes. She’s quite professional.”

  Bo grimaced again.

  No one else had a chance to add anything before Mags arrived. She gave us one of her bubbly introductions, "Hey, Bitches!"

  But then Chris started blurting out, "You should have heard what Waylon was just saying about you!"

  Mags shut up and looked at me nervously, almost hurt, wondering if I had told about the storage room incident. And if I did, how had I shared it? She didn't usually look hesitant, so I felt unexpectedly guilty, wanting to explain to her what I had said, to put her at ease.

  Ryan also noticed the worried expression on her face and quickly comforted her. I thought that was strange for Ryan, since he and Mags usually had a bit of inexplicable tension between them. "He gave you the highest compliments. He said he thought you were quite professional, impressive, and a person he was extremely proud to know." His delivery, as always, had that sincere devoid-of-sarcasm sound that made the words feel particularly comforting.

  She glanced at me for reassurance, resembling a beaten dog; a little sad, betrayed, and scared. I nodded with deliberation, reassuring her the best I could that her secret was safe.

  Though, honestly, for a girl who made a habit of strutting herself in front of guys every time we saw her, I wasn't sure why she was so concerned about the backroom story being shared with the group, not that it was. Maybe because it happened at her work and that crossed some line in her book. Maybe she really didn't do
that with clients after all, even ones she liked. Maybe because she had reasons for not wanting anyone in this group to know about her with someone else in the group. I didn't have any idea.

  "You impressed me today," I said. "Really. After today, I wouldn’t trust anyone else to help me find a job."

  A shadow seemed to cross Bo's brow, perhaps she winced, but she let it pass.

  Mags smiled sweetly, but all of her bluster was gone. "Thank you. We'll have you out of that poor excuse for a gas-station and into a proper job before you can say Flaming Jambalaya Étouffée."

  For the rest of the night, Mags was unusually quiet. She didn’t ogle me, Robby, or anyone else; or make any of her usual sexual remarks. She didn’t act condescending and indifferently bored. Instead, she seemed sad, quiet, and preoccupied.

  I wondered if she thought she had made a mistake, crossing the line with me. Maybe it made it harder for her to be herself now in the group, with me around, after crossing that line. I didn't know. I had no expectations because I didn’t know her well enough to second guess. I was just going to treat it for what it may have been, a random one-time encounter in a back room. Maybe the heat had gotten to both of us.

  ***

  Later that night, when no one else was around, she took me aside and asked in confidence, "Tell me the truth. Did you tell anyone anything about what happened?"

  "Hells, no, little mama," I said. When I saw her eyebrows jump, not wanting it to sound like I was ashamed of her, I added, "That's between you and me. It's none of their damned business."

  "You're not a kiss-and-tell kind of boy?"

  "No, ma'am, not me. My mama taught me to be respectful of women, especially ones I like."

  “Not a word?”

  “Not a word. All I said was how great you were at your job. And I was actually referring to your job.”