(This is a fantasy, grounded in reality. At some points the two will diverge, but I’ll leave that to you, when it happens.
I’ll give you a hint: Not Yet.
And by the way, she knows. That I’m writing this. She think’s it’s hilarious. I think she’s hilarious.)
I have always loved secrets. Shared ones, especially. And this counts, I think. I mean, it’s not as if anybody found out. Well one person did. And now you, of course. But you won’t tell, will you?
An office, quite a few offices ago, now. The day before a bank holiday weekend. I can’t tell you which, exactly. I’m not great with dates. Faces, scents, meals, outfits, those I’m better with.
But anyway, it was that dead day before the long weekend, the place was more than half empty, and everyone who was there was resentful, counting down time until they could get out and start whatever it was they did when they weren’t on the 12th floor on this old block. Especially as it was sunny, for once. That risk, what if it doesn’t last? That feeling of wasting time.
Which is what I was doing. I had plenty to do but I couldn’t get started on anything meaningful until I got things signed off by a grouchy, control-freak of a boss, who was, like all sane people, on leave until Tuesday.
So I had a day of busywork planned, and most certainly a long lunch in the sunshine somewhere, and a dash home the minute the clock hit 5.30.
The desk across from me was empty, like most of the desks at our end of the office. I was halfway through my first coffee, headphones firmly in, just getting in to my flow, when Jules startled me out of my bubble, appearing from nowhere, somehow.
‘Oh thank fuck. Another human. It’s dead at the front, all I can hear is Mark chewing on endless fucking pumpkin seeds. Like all having a giant squirrel in the place. You don’t mind, do you love?’
She’d already dropped her handbag on the seat opposite, and anyway, I didn’t mind. Not much anyway. She was fun, if pretty chatty, and I was already packing away my headphones, shaking my head.
‘Sure, go for it. I promise, no seeds, husks, nothing fibrous.’
She was, is, great fun. Loud and direct and unstoppable. Short, brave and mouthy.
And gorgeous. Particularly that day. She had this navy dress on, sleeveless, a red ribbon on the waist, and she looked, my god she looked breathtaking, really.
Wasted on a dead a Friday, in a half empty office. Her hair was shorter then, a neat bob, fringe just swept a little to the side. She’s changed the colour a week or two ago, deep chestnut, or as she called it ‘very bloody brown’.
She sat down m, started to unpack her stuff, moving the keyboard around, fussing with the chair.
‘Fuck me who sits here? Jane? God how tall is she?’
The squeak of her moving the seat up was sharp, grating, impossible to ignore. So I thought I’d talk, until she got settled.
‘She’s taller than me, that’s for sure. Love your dress.’
Honestly, the best I could do, but it was true.
‘Thank-you, missy. Sale, obvs. But still kind of too much, but it actually fit, so I had to keep it. What can you do?’
She shrugged theatrically.
‘Are you out, later, or…’
‘See now it IS too much for work, isn’t it? It’s like a party piece, I know, but I though fuck it, I’m not leaving it in the wardrobe until I’m too big to fit in it, or I forget all about it. So I went for it. And no, plans, love. Adam’s at this Dad’s, for the weekend, so I have no commitments, beyond carbs and poor housekeeping for a few days. I’m so excited, genuinely. Might do some gardening, Saturday, if it stays nice, but hey, who knows. Oh and spin on Sunday. But that’s the lot. You? What you up to? Make me jealous, go on.’
‘Nothing to be jealous of, Jules. Lunch with a friend tomorrow, see my folks on Sunday, not loads. A quiet one.’
‘Uh what’s the point of working with young people if they haven’t got wild lives to amuse you with? At least turn up hungover on Tuesday, make me feel better about myself.’
She always played up her age, but then, she’d have just turned forty, I think. There’ d been a lot of fuss, a raucous party at which she drank us all to shame, and some very embarrassing photos, as I remember.
‘Sorry, that’s all I’ve got. Maybe I’ll make something scandalous up for you, tell on Tuesday.’
‘Do it, Missy. I need some scandal. Anyway, I’ve got that big project group deck to fiddle around with, I’ll be in headphones land for a bit. Want a coffee first?’
‘Sure. Thanks, Jules.’
She called everyone who wasn’t either over fifty or a director ‘Missy’ or ‘Sunshine.’ She said it saved mixing names up. And no-one called her Julia.
She took my cup and headed off the kitchen, and as she turned round I caught the way the dress slid over her hips as she walked. I was always jealous of her hips, if I could have anyone’s, I’d take Jule’s. They might look silly on me, in isolation. I’d need to the whole package, the curves and the big smile and the voice and all.
She came back with drinks, a big grin, and we both settled down to work, or at least to look like we were working. I was in limbo, until next week, but apparently she had plenty to do. She always did. Her job title changed about five times in the time we worked together, but it was always basically the same role. She was ops, and did everything, it seemed. Or ‘Everything you specialists are too clever and precious to know to how to do.’
Regardless, she was quiet, tapping away, pink earphones clashing with her red lipstick, face in the half frown that said she’d left her reading glasses somewhere.
I got on with what I could, occasionally texting some uni friends about a reunion we’d be failing to organise for about two years. It was weird seeing her quiet, actually. In the end, I got stuck on the phone to someone, sitting on hold while they checked dates in a diary that sounded like an actual paper diary, and my mind drifted a little.
I caught myself admiring her nails, to go with the lipstick, pristine and smooth and dark. She was always put-together, but so was almost embarrassed at my unofficial casual Friday outfit. Black jeans, a slouchy denim blouse and no makeup whatsoever because I was running late, again.
The phone call ended, after forever, and I struggled to get started again. I wrote and re-wrote a few lists, working in circles, my eyes catching her fingers, quick and quiet over the keys. I’ll confess I got a little lost, distracted by her hands. They’re great hands, I mean, honestly.
I must have looked a little vacant. She interrupted, loud and clear as ever.
‘What you up to, Missy?’
‘Now? Uhum…lists, timings for next week. I um.’
I mean my really, nothing. Definitely not admiring your quick, clever hands. Not thinking about them tangled in my hair. Not thinking about you teasing me with those long, smooth fingers,making me whimper, pressing your index finger between my lips. Making me taste myself on you. Nothing at all.
‘I meant lunch. It’s nearly lunch. I’m amazed you can’t hear stomach eating itself from over there. Burgers?’
‘What?’
‘You know that market, opposite the church? Every last Friday? There’s this burger thing and I’ve promised myself one. We can eat in that park down the road, you know, the one with the broken tree?’
‘How can I resist. Yes, lovely. It’a a date.’
‘Super. Ten minutes or so?’
She went back to the keyboard, even faster than before, and I swallowed, composed myself. What can I say? I like hands.
So we queued, in the smoke and sun, and ate on a dryish bit of grass in the park, enviously looking at all the people who did have today off, and didn’t have a stuffy office to swallow them back up for the next three hours.
As we were shuffling reluctantly back, she pointed at a man walking happily over to some friends, a bottle of Prosecco under each arm.
‘See that guy knows the score. God, I could destroy one of those right now. You busy after work? What do you say? Same place, more fizz?’
‘I cannot resist drinking in a park. You know that.’
‘That’s my girl.’
The afternoon dragged, the food not helping me stay alert, and we fairly skipped out of the lifts when five thirty finally showed up.
‘I normally do the stairs, Ella, but these shoes pinch like a bitch. Neat though right?’
They were, in fact, quite neat. Rosey grey patent flats, I think.
So we found fizz, and doughnuts (she’d insisted), and patch of sun in the park. And we bitched for a while and she showed me photos of her dog, and by the second bottle I was sat close by her side, making her show me them all again, telling her about my cramped flat and shitty commute, and she was being patient, listening, looking sideways at me, and looking just impossibly good in the hazy last bits of the sun.
And then…she brushed the doughnut crumbs from her lap, and checked the time, squinting at her phone, and swore.
‘Shit. I need to make that train, or I’ll be screwed. Sorry, lovely. Let’s do this again, soon. Maybe somewhere with chairs, even. My bum’s soaked.’
She brushed at the back of her dress, and I didn’t stare. Instead I stood awkwardly kind of half on one foot, and said
‘It was great. Fun. I had fun. You’re fun.’
And kind of went to pat the back of her hand, and missed. And we both laughed, and she spread her arms wide, pulled me in for a hug, and I can still feel it, the warmth of her, her strong arms, her head just clearing my chest, squeezing herself into me. And she gave my bum a squeeze, jokey but firm.
‘Now take your soggy butt home missy, or wherever it is you youths go on a Friday night. See you Tuesday. Bring scandal!’
And a wave and that big broad smile and she headed off, while I tried to remember which bus to catch, from here.
And I went home, alone. I bought beers, which I didn’t need, and drank one on the sofa, all the windows open, and scrolled through Facebook pictures and generally felt fidgety and a little sad. And then smell of the burger grill in my hair got to bother me, so I took myself off to the shower.
I was a bit woozy, from the sun and all, and the cool water was a shock, made me gasp. I caught my breath, wet my hair, imagined her hands smoothing it down, her stood behind me, her chest pressed against my back, whispering in my ear, calling me missy.
I looked down and my nipples were hard, flushed dark, and I wanted her hands over them, soft and then hard, gripping me, making me gasp, so I squeezed them, soft and soft and then hard enough that I squealed, the noise echoing around the bathroom. And I bit my lip and kept twisting, teasing, imagining her shushing me, telling me to keep the noise down, while she slid a hand along the inside my thigh, pinched my clit, firmly, not moving, making me grind and thrust against her hand.
My finger was just teasing, side to side across my clit, just gently , and I thought about her body in the water, those thighs, her soft, round hips, her mouth open, telling me to kiss her while she stroked me, just barely moving those strong hands, one finger resting just between my lips, teasing.
I rubbed myself harder, biting my lip again, but even with the water it still wasn’t quite there. I took the showerhead down, turned the temperature up, still stroking with my free hand, in circles now, heart beating in my hears, my clit throbbing under my fingers.
I let the water play over my lips a little before pointing it across my clit, from the left, adjusting the pressure a little, until so felt the bright, tingling feeling deep in me, that tension getting closer to the surface. I thought of her slowly stroking her fingers in and of me, looking at my face with those dark green eyes, smiling.
I was tugging hard on my nipple now, painful but just painful enough, and each tug sent a a little jolt down to my crotch, I could feel myself clenching and tensing, and my knees felt soft, shaky.
It was hard staying upright, tipsy and turned on and panting like this, and I had a moment of fear, unsteady, so I lay myself down on my back, legs wide apart, the bath feeling cool against my spine. I teased myself gently while I got the water turned up a little, then lay back, and played the jet directly over myself, imagining her, rubbing me faster, her tongue in my mouth now, muffling my little noises. God I was close.
I let go of my nipple, which throbbed away on its own for a while, and teased just one finger inside, feeling how wet she’d made me, eyes tightly closed, feeling myself grip and flinch as the water drummed against my clit, and I remember seeing my foot, stuck up in the air and looking kind of silly, and then I shut my eyes tight and hardly made a sound at all as I crashed over the edge and felt the burst, the release, that blissful warmth.
I took a while to open my eyes, and my breathing was still heavy by the time I finished washing my hair, stepping out flushed in to the empty flat. I felt lighter, relieved, but weak, a little shaky. I felt the need to hold her, or at least to thank her.
Of course, I didn’t thank her, not for the orgasm. I took my drunk self to bed and messaged her to say I’d enjoyed the park, have a good night, all that.
She replied, saying it was a delight. But that now she was thirsty and full.
She sent me a picture of herself, on her sofa in a giant grey t shirt, looking flushed, hair not so neat, now. I wondered, just a little, if she’d had the same idea I’d had, just now.
She’d captioned it
‘This is my too much fizz in the sun face’
I told her I liked her face, she’d laughed, and I’d gone to sleep, idly brushing my sore nipples with my thumb, thinking about her, sliding out of that dress, running her hands across her skin, thinking of me.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/fwlwmm/sort_of_a_secret_ch1_burgers_oc_ff_mast