Workplace Escapades Ch. 01

After college, while looking for work as a writer, I settled for a retail job, for which I was the ideal woman. With the strong legs acquired from playing college soccer, thick blonde hair that fell below my shoulders and boobs like melons, nary a man or woman walked into my department without gawking, at least a little.

The day I met Jules was a day of pastels and derby hats. A certain spring fundraiser in my town requires fancy, flowery, over-the-top headwear, and in the days leading up to the event, society ladies come into Fashion Accessories to spend thousands on bonnets and fedoras.

After the Ladies Who Lunch left, their Chanel perfume still tickling my nose, she — with her prickly bald scalp, tattooed shoulders and dainty fingers painted black — brought goose bumps to my arms and the back of my neck. Until that moment, I thought I only liked boys.

My body said otherwise when we locked eyes and smiled at each other. As she handled a pair of Versace sunglasses I ogled the interaction — her fingers on the shiny, overpriced plastic — imagining that clean manicure with its rebellious hue pinching my tit until it glowed pink.

It was then that the warm gush soaked my stockings, under which I was bare.

My face felt hot. I must have blushed. How could I hide my attraction?

Certainly she noticed the sweat at my temples when she handed me her credit card.

"Can I see your ID?" I asked.

She slapped it on the counter and stuck out her tongue. "I hate this picture," she says.

She looks traditionally gorgeous in it, with a chin length deep brunette bob and mahogany lipstick. I calculated her age at 28, five years older than me.

"You look pretty."

"Well, thanks," she says. "That's sweet."

"I mean you look better like you are now." And to my own shock I add, "Sexy."

After looking around to see who is within earshot she says, "You are."

We both laugh. That night I think about her as I bathe. Squeezing liquid soap onto my nipples, into my palms, dreaming they are hers, I move them up and down, in and out, banging until my legs stiffen and my toes curl and I catch my breath mid-moan, embarrassed.

The next day she is there again. She needs a dress. She is a curator at the modern art museum downtown, it turns out, and she needs something fancy for an artist reception tonight.

Can I help her? She asks. We are allowed to accompany customers to other departments, which is nice, because accessories do not exactly garner the highest commissions. I thank my coworker for manning scarves and hairpins while I lead Jules upstairs.

The chic, expensive dresses are in a department called Savvy. On this weekday afternoon, Savvy is a ghost town.

I offer the guy working the section sorry, not-sorry grin and he says, "Good for you, girl," and wanders over to chat with the bored sportswear staffer.

She's examining a little black number, holding it up against her lanky body. A bead of sweat trickles down the back of my neck as I work to maintain my professionalism.

"Let's consider some color," I suggest. "With your edgy look, you can get away with ivory," I say, touching a sheer wraparound, "or greens," I say, "which would bring out your brilliant eyes. Or this one," I say, moving down the line to a short, fitted, low-cut choral piece with a hint of a ruffle at the sleeve.

She wrinkles her perfect nose but allows me to guide the search. "You're the expert," she teases.

Adding an off-the-shoulder jumper and a beaded sheath to our pile, I show her to the changing rooms. She plucks the one with the ruffle from my arms and shuts herself in the room.

I am trying hard to concentrate on fashion when I few moments later, in a husky voice, she says my name. "Cassie?"

As I enter, she's facing the mirror, back to me.

Her legs look endless in the short skirt. "Oh god," I mumble, professionalism be damned.

We are both tittering, the tiny room buzzing with our energy.

Clearly the dress is too short, but I reach out anyway to tug the zipper, if only so I might touch her.

We both study her reflection —toes polished copper, legs bronzy, the dress snug, its hem resting just below her hips.

Her waist is teensy as is her chest, but the fabric pulls at her breasts, creating small mounds that bounce when she laughs.

"It would fit you better," she says.

"I don't have anywhere to wear it," I say.

"Come with me," she says. "Come with me to the reception."

"OK," I say without pause.

"Great," she answers, turns and kisses me.

Her breath tastes like fresh strawberries and a faraway cigarette — lips dewy and soft but sure.

I grab her waist. Her tongue is in my mouth. She hikes up the dress, then grips and directs my hand to her naked crotch.

I whisper that I am not sure what to do now.

"I haven't done this with a woman before," I tell her.

She says to imagine she's me. "What do you want me to do to you? Do that."

I flick my thumb across her clit, as I slip my fingers deep into her.

"You do know what to do," she groans.

She reaches with some desperation under my skirt, between my legs, pulling my panties to one side and slipping two thin digits way inside me, hooking a fingertip inward, pressing a spot that I am not sure anyone has touched before.

My passion, drips down the inside of my thighs, my eyes roll into the back of my head and I begin to shudder. The spasm of joy and pleasure possesses me from the curling tips of my toes to my hair follicles.

"Oh my god," she whispers, thrilled at my excitement, and she drops to her knees taking my swollen pussy in her mouth, licking my clit for a only a second before I explode again, falling backward, onto my ass.

Now I'm sitting, resting on shaking elbows as she straddles me, giving me access to her. I thrust my fingers up into her and within two heartbeats her face contorts into a silent scream.

We orgasm, violently, at once, clutching one another, as if for dear life. I wrap my arms around her and she seizes my hair, pulling my face into her cleavage. We remain this way for a time, trying to catch our collective breath, attempting to remain quiet.

In the end, she buys the little black dress.