by Luke Mason
I’ve done some research over the years. I suspect I have overactive Bartholin glands, though I haven’t gotten a doctor’s opinion. They just drip and drip sometimes. Certainly no man’s ever complained. It does get messy when I’m in a mood and forget to pack panty liners.
Unable to pull out, and physically unable to go deeper, Pete leans in and kisses me hard. His mouth opens and our tongues meet in a teasing dance of attack and riposte. His hand cups my right breast and tweaks the nipple, rubbing it gently now with his thumb. All I want is to set him free. My head feels ready to pop, whether from horniness or booze or both.
Abruptly he breaks off our long kiss and rears back.
“Jen,” he says breathlessly. “Let me go now, or …”
Quickly, I untangle my legs, and he pulls out wetly. His face goes through a series of contortions as he tries to control the immanent explosion. I’m on pins and needles waiting, hoping he can. This is exciting!
Seconds later, he relaxes and nods.
“Good shave, boy toy,” I say, then giggle because I said shave and not save.
Pete says, “I ain’t shaving no boy toys.”
I giggle again. Pete’s funny when I’m drunk.
Nine
I’m wearing Dino Tits’s earrings, a headband I found in one of the drawers, and the natural blonde’s open-front sweater. It’s a nice sweater, very soft. I wonder where she bought it, and if maybe I should buy one of my own to parade around in when I come back on Monday. I’ll carry it under my arm folded, then compliment her for having such a nice sweater. When she snarkily says, Yeah, it’s nice, that’s why I bought it, I’ll show her mine and say, Yeah, that’s why I bought the same one, you toilet stealing office nazi!
Maybe it’ll freak her out in a Single White Female sort of way.
I can’t stop giggling at the thought of me coming to work looking exactly like one of them, all spooky eyes and scary smiles. Also, I can’t stop giggling, because booooze.
“Spread wider,” Pete says. He’s holding my cellphone and taking close-up shots of me with my legs spread. I’ve shoved the natural blonde’s chopsticks up my cunt to where the Chinese writing starts. The other girl’s set is poking out of my ass.
“How’s this?” I say.
I have one leg up on the desk and the other on the right arm of the chair. I’m limber, but not so spry that I can do a full split with both legs up on the desk at the same time.
“Perfect,” he says and snaps a picture. “You’re deleting these, right?”
His eyes are a bit glassy, and he seems to be in a daze of sorts. I’ve seen that look any number of times over the years on guys. Usually right before they dump me. I’m fine with that because I can depend on it, but it still hurts a little. Which makes no sense at all, because I have no relationship plans for Pete.
Starting Monday, I’ll ramp up my effort to win VP Brett for my own.
Pete will understand. Today’s just for fun.
I shake the troubling thoughts away, but the world keeps shaking after I stop.
“No I’m not deleting them,” I say, or rather slur. Definitely slurring a lot now. “They’re for my collection. I’ll show it to you shometime … sometime. There’s even one with me and another girl. She’s so hot …”
Pete blinks in surprise. “Wait a minute … You’re bi? Now that’s hot!”
I shake my head again, because it was such fun last time. “It was a dare. I’m not really bi, but I do find women sexy. Weird, though … I sort of liked licking her pussy. But the emotional side … no. I like men. That’s who I am.”
Pete’s grinning like mad now, and he’s stopped taking pictures. “Wow. I had no idea you were so wild.”
“I’m building a collection. I like to watch me in bed with people when I … Well, you know.” An idea strikes me. “Hey! You could come over and watch with me.”
Too late, I remember how I’m supposed to reset our friendship on Monday, go for the boss instead. I search for the right words to disinvite him, but Pete’s already talking.
“What if someone finds it? Blackmails you?”
“Wouldn’t really care. I’m not all that shy, Petey Pie.” A giggle bursts forth that I can’t control. “And I’m broke. Like to see them try …”
Pete takes a few more shots. I take the chopsticks from my ass and set them aside. I take the set from my pussy and lick them. When I do, I notice his semi-hard extends a little more. Intrigued, I keep licking the chopsticks. Sure enough, he’s getting harder and harder. It’s actually quite beautiful—like a smooth, pink flower reaching for the sky.
“So who was she?” he says. At my puzzled expression, he adds, “The girl you, uh …”
“Ah … She was a sorority sister. She transferred out … Last year sometime. Haven’t heard from her since. We were drunk. Of course.”
“Of course.”
Of course…
I go quiet for a time.
“Is something wrong?” he says.
I nod and bat my eyes like a sweet little choir girl.
“What?”
“You’re not eating my pussy,” I say in a throaty, bedroom voice. “That’s what.”
Pete seems momentarily torn between whether to slam his cock home or do me the Christian kindness of eating me out. If he chooses to fuck me and end it with a bang, I know I can’t stop him. It’s been a long journey and he’s tired, war weary. The battle’s raging behind his eyes—fuck or lick, fuck or lick—and I know he’s close.
After a brief struggle, his sweeter nature prevails, and he puts the camera down. I’m watching his eyes the whole time. His expression is sort of scary—he wants to take me, ravage me, put me in my place.
Pete sits in one of the two chairs, no cushion, and rolls up to the desk. It’s the perfect position. My pussy is basically at mouth-level with him. He rests his hands on my thighs and presses down, spreading me wide. Gently—so gently—he leans in and rubs me right with his beautiful lips. The powder-soft flesh of my inner thigh lightly scrapes the stubble of his cheek like a match, stoking my smoldering passion to a white-hot conflagration.
“Oh, god,” I say. “That’s it right there …”
“Mmm, hmm,” he mmm-hmms.
“That! That! More of that!”
“Mmm hmm?”
I shove his face down hard. “Mmm hmmm.”
Pete’s background humming is like a mini-vibrator carrying me over wave after crashing wave of unfettered delight. He’s into it, too—almost too much, and I secretly wonder if it’s just the whipped cream he’s after. I grab the can and sort of hold it near his head, testing him, but he brushes it away. He wants me.
He wants me.
He’s licking my clit like a monkey on a cupcake, sucking, slurping, and flicking daintily with the tip of his tongue. My hand on the back of his head is meant to communicate: too long, too hard, too soft. To my delight, Pete needs no such guidance. A master craftsman, he employs tongue, lips, chin, and even teeth, sculpting me into a shining spirit of sensation and desire. “Jen, the intern” is gone. That one burned away long ago, and it was I who soared from the ashes.
I throw back my head and let out a feral howl of joy, rage, and fear, and suddenly Pete’s out of his seat and ramming into me: one, two, three, four, FIVE, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT … TWENTY … THIRTY.
“Oh, Jen … Jen … Can’t hold …”
Passions entwined, I arch off the desk and scrabble to hold on. When he comes, it pops a little from holding it so long, followed by a warm, tickling rush inside my pussy. He lays there for a time panting, sealing me tight like a human cork.
When he begins to soften, I shift to the side and he slips free—but my fingers keep it from leaking out.
“Jen, that was …”
“Yeah…”
“Yeah.”
He wants to rest, and I do too. The world is reeling like a fucking merry-go-round. Too much drink, and that stupid pizza. The desk is a smeary mess. And we didn’t even fi
nish the work we were supposed to do.
Before the regrets pile too high, I say, “Phone.”
“Huh?”
He moves to kiss me, and I let him, but only for a second. “My phone … quick.”
He blinks in confusion, then nods and gets my phone. “Photo?”
“Video.”
He pokes the screen and nods tiredly.
I reach over and grab that lovely porcelain coffee mug—the one I’d admired quite honestly that first day on the job, back when I tried to make friends with these women. I stare into the blue-green whorls, tracing the glossy surface with my sticky thumb, smudging it.
An old boyfriend I’d only had for a few weeks said if a guy holds off coming for too long, it builds up so much that he shoots out more than normal. I have no idea what Pete’s “normal” is or isn’t. But the pressure within is a raging river, and it wants out.
I lower the lovely mug to just under my gaping cunt and release the dam. When it’s almost two shot glasses full—all I can squeeze out—I raise it a few inches over my upturned mouth and slowly drink it down. The consistency is a creamy mix of salt, sugar, and the taboo tang of my ripened snatch. I run my finger along the inside of the cup so I don’t miss a drop, then lick it seductively for the camera.
“Did you get all that?” I say finally.
Pete pauses, head tilted a little to the side in consideration. He looks a bit dazed, almost haunted. But he’s with me, and that’s what matters.
“No,” he says after a time. “I really don’t get it.” He waits some more. “But I’m willing to find out.”
Me too, I think distantly.
I almost say so, but the reception desk is so soft and cozy and warm that all I do is pass out.
Ten
Upon waking in my apartment, I find a note from Pete saying he was going back to clean up our mess. I read between the lines: he’s off to make sure nobody shows up on Monday to stained cushions, foul-tasting chopsticks, and pre-creamed coffee mugs.
My hangover is more than I can bear. I pop a marijuana gummy and chase it with aspirin. No, I’m not a drug addict. They’re legally produced in California, and illegally consumed by me. My ex-neighbor, Richard, sends them to me every month. They keep me calm, focused. I haven’t needed them this bad in a very long time.
Because you found that bottle of booze. What were you thinking, that it’d be different this time?
I’m not a drunk. Too-much-too-often isn’t my problem. Losing my inhibitions—that’s the problem. This rage I have inside—it comes crashing out, along with all my insecurities and carefully bottled away sensuality. And when it’s released, it doesn’t care who it hits or what it knocks over. Like those awful receptionists. Like my self-respect. Like Pete.
They’re not as awful as you, my conscience offers up.
Fuck you too, I offer back.
I don’t remember Pete dressing me. I barely remember stumbling with him down nine flights of stairs and out the fire exit. He wanted me to crash at his place, but I made such a fuss he took me home instead. My car’s still back at the office, and I need to get it.
I search my phone for a friend who can drive me in. Then I remember: I have no friends. All I have is my gummy dealer and my parents, both a thousand miles away. After going down on that girl at the sorority house, my “sisters” wanted nothing to do with me. Oh yeah, their website says they’re LGBT friendly. Hypocrites.
I call for a cab, which I can barely afford, and wait for it to pick me up. I haven’t showered, and my mouth tastes like ass. When the cabby picks me up, he tries to engage me in small talk, then gives up when I start crying.
Feeling miserable and ashamed, I head to where I’m parked and then stop. It isn’t like me to just give up on my plans. One mistake with Pete doesn’t mean my life is over—doesn’t mean VP Brett and I are over. I’m twenty-two, I’m pretty (when not hungover and blotchy from crying), and he’s a healthy man at the height of his power. He’ll want me for my looks at first, then come to realize what a valuable partner I am. Then I’ll be happy.
“It could work,” I say, and head back to the office.
I slump past the security desk. The guard calls me back, saying I have to sign in. So I sign in. He stares at me like he hopes I’ll ask for his phone number. I do not.
My head hurts, I feel like throwing up, and the button to my floor keeps jumping out of the way. I finally stab it and lean back against the elevator wall.
The reception desk looks about as clean and tidy as ever. I pick up the mug from the day before and analyze it, searching for even the tiniest crack or smudge. It’s perfectly clean and lovely and undamaged. So are the two sets of chopsticks. A tiny giggle bursts forth as an idea occurs to me … but then I quickly abandon it, because I’m sober.
See how easy that is?
I go to the conference room where Pete and I were working and gasp when I don’t see my laptop. Where is it? Did he take it home? It wasn’t in my apartment. I rush through the office to my cube and sigh with relief. It’s sitting on my desk connected to the charger.
“Thanks again, Pete,” I say.
I feel a momentary pang of regret for what might have been. Whatever it was, it’s over now. I’m not going to pursue anything further with him beyond what happened on Saturday. He deserves better than the likes of me. He’s young and good looking, friendly, funny, and any normal girl would be tickled to have him in her life.
So why can’t you?
The thought goes unanswered because I have none. Answers. All I have is motion and a direction and time working against me. I need to prove to Brett that I’m a girl who does what she says.
Pete and I never finished our work the day before, so I head back to the storage room to get more boxes.
The door is shut. I try the knob. Locked, and I don’t have the security code.
“Shit,” I say.
I grab my phone and pull up Pete’s texts from Friday’s meeting. Since then, he’s added three more:
You okay?
You awake yet?
Let me know when you’re up.
I tap back my reply: I’m fine.
A second later, feeling like a jerk, I tap out: Thank you.
Pete: Do you need a ride to your car?
Me: I’m at the office.
Pete: What for?
Me: To finish the work.
Pete: I’ll be right there.
Me: I want to be alone. Please.
Me: Sorry.
Several seconds pass where I feel crappy for treating him like this. It’s not his fault, but I can’t seem to stop being hurtful.
Me: Do you know the code to the storage room?
He gives me the code.
Me: I’m sorry.
No reply.
I try the code and it works.
An L-shaped room, it’s dusty and cluttered with ancient fossils from the age of papers and filing cabinets. The boxes I want are way at the back where it hooks to the left. There are about ten more, each tagged with yellow post-it notes reading, “OCR.”
I grab the closest one and set to work.
Eleven
By Monday morning, all symptoms of my hangover are gone, and true to form, the pot-gummy has me mellow, focused, and in control.
The weekend OCR project is done, finished shortly after midnight. Tired, but excited for today’s possibilities, I email VP Brett the link to the files and CC Pete, because he deserves equal credit.
Almost immediately, Brett replies back, Thank you! Good job, you two.
Normally my heart would warm at the compliment, but a billion calculations and timers are going off in my head. Somehow I have to build on his good will, keep myself visible as a girl who gets things done, all while getting him to see me as a sexy woman and not just a resource.
I head over to the government section—a place I’m not allowed to be (technically), but nobody seems to care. His door’s straight ahead. Per his policy, it’s cracked open about
a foot.
Tap-tap-tap.
“Come in,” Brett says.
I edge the door open, smile shyly, step inside, and shut it behind me.
“Hi, Jen,” he says, eyebrows raised in polite interest.
My face reddens with embarrassment. I hope he finds it attractive.
“I just wanted to thank you again for the opportunity,” I say, hoping it doesn’t sound as rehearsed as it is. “It’s nice to be able to contribute to the forward direction of the company, and to … um … uh … be a part of the team. A team of solid professionals who … you know. It means a lot.”
Shit, that was bad.
“No problem,” he says. “We should have done it long ago. These things stack up and get forgotten. Honestly, no one’s going to want that stuff. If they do, we’ll have it, and we can use the space for something else. Thanks again.”
A polite dismissal.
“Um, if there’s anything else you need,” I say. “Anything at all—just let me know.” I pause a beat and smile shyly. “Anything. At all.”
There. It’s out. A real man would already be pondering the various possible meanings of my words. If he’s pondering, I can’t tell. Men are inscrutable at times. VPs most of all.
“Uh … okay. Will do. Thanks again, Jen.”
I step closer to his desk and risk a quick glance back at the door. “Maybe we can go to lunch and talk about it?”
He holds up a finger and stares at his computer screen a moment, mouth moving as he reads something, then looks back at me in confusion.
“Lunch? Oh … Right. You and your friend. Good idea. How about tomorrow?”
I’m a horny vixen with perky tits and a can-do attitude, but he’s still thinking of me as an intern. He actually wants Pete to come along. No way is that going to work. Even if I wasn’t planning to hit on the boss, I couldn’t sit down with Pete for lunch, not after what I did to him Saturday.
I grab the hem of my blouse and lean against his desk to maximize the perkiness. My pushup bra has been killing me all morning, but I’m not wearing it for comfort.