[FM] Sending a beloved coworker off “right”

What feels like a lifetime ago I worked as a bartender. It was a small place, more frequently used as an intimate concert venue than a meetup, but on off-nights we still had regulars and did solid business. On the nights without live acts our team was pretty small: four of us on the regular, myself included.

The heart and soul of the team were two older ladies, Cheryl and Molly, both in the range of late 40s to mid 50s. And I did love them with my heart and soul, I still stay in touch with them on the regular since we’ve all been laid off and hunkered indoors with the pandemic. The fourth worker at the time of this story was Mike, he was 24, a few years younger than me, and the perfect oblivious heartthrob.

For better or worse, Molly, Cheryl, and I were like a locker room full of adolescent boys when the topic of Mike came up. It was mostly a joke, Cheryl and Molly were straight shooters always speaking their mind and otherwise being spunky middle-aged ladies that didn’t feel like they had to present their feelings in a polite little package. They certainly didn’t, taking any night where Mike wasn’t on staff (or even if he was simply in the other room) as an opportunity to lead into endless “I would rock that boy’s world” style innuendos, tinged safely in the context that nothing would ever come of it as they perceived Mike as living in a separate world. I joined in on the fun, Mike was certainly lustworthy, but I didn’t have their comic bravado and when I tried they’d sweetly dismiss it, saying I’d have a shot if I tried, maybe projecting themselves onto my relative youth.

Molly was the older of the two, long-divorced, and would often treat me to musings about how you reach a certain age where you stop caring. Coincidentally she claimed that that same age hit her over the head with a hormonal frying pan, reigniting libido in a fashion she deemed “unfair.” Salty, ruthless, and hilarious she would crack jokes at Mike’s girlfriend’s expense whenever she came in, comparing Mike’s girlfriend’s qualities to her own, always ruling she’s the better choice in the end. With a sweet aunt quality she’d double down on his girlfriend joking that if he really wanted someone his age that I beat out his girlfriend in every category. In the same breath, Cheryl and Molly were familially supportive and competitively puzzled why I wouldn’t just go take him.

All of our fun came to a screeching halt one day when Mike came in, and clearly with a heavy heart, gave his two weeks notice. He was off to med school in a different city, something he had long aspired to, something we had talked about frequently on shared slow shifts. Mike would be perfect for medicine, or at least taking care of people. Yes, I did just describe him as oblivious and yes he was occasionally referred to by Cheryl and Molly as a “big, dumb, beautiful man,” but that was to say his intelligence was hyper-focused. The kind of person you weren’t 100% could tie his own shoes or detect sarcasm, but was capable of reciting some mind-bending, complex scientific concept he still remembered from his high school AP classes a decade ago.

Molly, Cheryl, and I were devastated. Not only because he was our beloved eye candy, but because he was a genuinely kind guy and always made our jobs easier. This all went down about a year ago, but I remember it well. We were all getting ready to open and Mike approached Cheryl and I from the customer side of the bar. Decently over six feet, he towered over both of us, yet looked like he wanted to shrink into himself as he sheepishly gave us the news that he’d be leaving. Muscular arms toying with a stain on the bar that we all knew could not be removed, he couldn’t bare to make eye contact as he broke down the details.

Naturally, we were all excited for him, our true feelings of camaraderie easily edging out depraved jokes, but so began the short march until Mike was gone. Nights he was off were filled with remarks from Molly and Cheryl about how it was a shame they were never able to seal the deal, suggesting the *“right thing to do”* would be to give him a proper sendoff, coupled with cackling laughter.

At the end of one night, after we had been marinating in enough free shots from some ostentatious customer, Molly and Cheryl went off the deep end with their jokes, saying that I should be the one to “send him off right” on behalf of all of us. I was all bark, no bite, joining in on their dirty jokes to fit in, but a complete amateur as it related to spontaneous hookups and scandal. Regardless, they badgered onward, citing that I was “young and hot” and that they “saw the way he looks at you.” I supposed it was true, so full of flattery and liquid courage I joked back that “I’d think about it,” which was met with mock cheers and boisterous laughter.

*It sounded like fun though.*

Their words stuck with me in the days leading up to Mike’s final shift. They “saw the way he looks at you,” was mostly a true statement. There were a few things I could wear, or do with my makeup that would always elicit a compliment from Mike, as if he wasn’t blatantly broadcasting his turn-ons with each repeated specific statement, eyes boring into me whenever I faced the other direction.

For one, there were a couple ill-conceived shades of lipstick he always had something to say about. The further I get from the time I thought I could pull off dark blues, purples, and blacks the more I cringe. Nevertheless, Mike always, 100%, without a doubt, would compliment me if I wore them. Don’t judge me too hard, it was just when we’d have punk bands play I would try to look somewhat festive.

Article two, I thought, was a- damn it, why was I even thinking that hard on this? The finale to a long series of jokes had seemingly landed incorrectly in my brain and set down truthful roots. I began rationalizing the thought of *“sending Mike off right,”* an innuendo I was too prudish to even translate to plain terms. The thing I couldn’t get out of my head though was how ***fun*** it sounded. How hot the idea was. I knew Mike well enough, I liked Mike, definitely was attracted to Mike, and most of all I trusted Mike. As much as you could trust anyone you knew nearly exclusively from working with them for a year or two.

Plus, I knew I had Cheryl and Molly in my corner. Not in that I truly believed they wanted me to be the one to *“send him off”* on the behalf of us all, but in that if any strangeness came from any of this, I trusted everyone around me. I was comfortable with it all. If I destroyed my friendship with Mike, oh well, he’s moving far away.

Shit, I was thinking too hard on this, too detailed. Mike had made it clear on a number of occasions he was attracted to me, even if it was on accident. There was also the detail that Mike had a girlfriend, a detail I was very comfortable dismissing because, if you couldn’t tell, I’m a scumbag (though in actuality he kept mentioning they were probably going to break up rather than go long distance, close enough for me!)

*Well shit, here we go.*

Article two, I thought, was a black leather bandage skirt I wore every once in a while. I’ve got wide hips that stand out from the rest of my otherwise unpronounced figure and that skirt was just tight enough that it sort of screamed for attention in a way I didn’t always want to deal with. Case in point was Mike. Again, without fail, I’d get a “cool skirt” or “that’s a badass skirt” whenever I wore it. Another example of me trying to fit into the crowd, I’d wear it whenever we had loud bands and I wanted to feel a bit more “rock chick.”

Fuck it, I had my wardrobe and I had my deadline.

The day came: it was a Saturday, no band tonight but usually still a busy night. I took a nice long bath before getting ready for the night, trying to clear my head while I soaked, but instead reaffirming my excitement and drive. I dug my reliable little skirt out of some dark corner of my closet and paired it with a simple long-sleeve cut out crop top.

I labored over my decision of tights or no tights for what felt like half an hour. *“Tights will make it look like you’re not trying so hard”* I thought, *“Isn’t trying hard the whole point of this outfit?”* I shot back to myself, *“Some guys think tights are sexy,”* I introduce another conundrum to myself, *“But won’t they get in the way if something DOES happen?”*

*Who the hell was I?*

Impossibly, I was able to make some decisions and made my way to work. “No tights” was the final answer on that puzzle, and I’ll spare you the internal struggle for which lipstick I should go with: I went with a dark cerulean (black lipstick with a black outfit and black hair was too goth, I decided). My nails were painted to match, my one-track mind in full effect. I had even created the perfect window for myself, like a switch was flipped and I went into master jewel thief mode. Molly, who was the third on staff with me and Mike that night, received a text from me requesting she come in an hour late as “I came in early and took care of prep.” It was a rare occurrence so she happily took the opportunity.

I was behind the bar, fake busying myself and psyching myself up when Mike arrived a bit late. He wore a fun-patterned button-down shirt, tailored perfectly to his cut frame. Broad shoulders perfectly accentuated, tempting collarbone stealing glances out of the top of his shirt. “Last day” I announced with sad enthusiasm, swallowing hard at the sight of him. Mike nodded with a smile, slinging his backpack off his shoulders. His arms flexing tantalizingly as he shifted its weight, dubious tattoos peeking cautiously out from short sleeves.

As Mike came around the corner, like clockwork he paid me a compliment on my lipstick. *The fool, so easily led.*

Right on cue, he voiced his approval of my skirt, double-checking if we had a band on tonight. I hadn’t expected him to follow my fashion patterns like that. I told him we didn’t, that I just thought it would be fun to get dressed up for his last day, perhaps a bit too heavy-handed. As mentioned, Mike could be a bit oblivious, so he was just flattered and maybe a bit self-conscious that I could so easily tell what he liked.

Staying on that theme, I called him over after he had stashed his stuff in the back. Pouring two glasses of a kind of whiskey he could rarely shut-up about, I proposed a toast to his future, emphasizing that he would be deeply missed by me, Cheryl, and Molly. He looked in my eyes as our glasses clinked, his pale green eyes indisputably lethal. He, an indisputably big, dumb, beautiful man.

He returned our sentiment, saying that he should be thanking the three of us for being patient with his collection of silly mistakes and blunders. I told him he was our conscience, that without him the three of us will probably get arrested. He smiled wide, his laissez-faire stubble moving into well-worn smile lines. Enough to make any girl weak in the knees.

I told him he was wrong, that *we* were the ones that should be thanking him.

“Speaking of which,” I believe I followed it up with, like a line straight out of some terrible B-movie (sorry to get distracted, just still cringing thinking about it lol). I finished my short glass of whiskey and told him I needed some help refilling the cleaner bottles at the bar. We had an incredibly sketchy basement where the owner kept bulk supplies, including cleaning supply refills. Mike volunteered to help me bring some of it up with a puzzled look on his face as to how that linked to “thanking him.”

I led the way, Mike reluctantly finishing off his own whiskey, several steps behind me. My heeled ankle boots added a level of danger I did not anticipate as each foot crept down the worn-down steps. A small, musty cave of a room, I neglected to pull the chain on the single lightbulb to take in its greater details. A tiny old ground level window at the top of the room providing just enough murky light to move about.

A half-closet, half-alcove sat in the corner of the room where the cleaner was normally stored, and also a location I was 90% sure no camera coverage reached. Trying a bit too hard, I bent over to rifle through the supplies, trying to channel some long-lost seductress that lurked within me. Mike’s heavy steps reach the dirt floor of the basement accompanied by him volunteering to handle carrying the supplies.

Genuinely trying to help with my fake trap to get him down here, he pulled the light cord. As the gritty yellow light washed over the basement, I committed to whatever strange pose I was attempting. Mike stood in silence, at my angle I was completely unable to tell if that was because he was laughing hysterically on the inside or if he liked what he saw.

I got my answer soon enough, turning my head over my shoulder and telling him to turn it back off as his eyes suffocated my body. He follows his directions as we’re returned to the clouded windows light and I coax him over to me like a scared animal.

Were he one, he could’ve consumed me, marching over and casting me in his shadow, feeling small even in my heeled boots. I slide my hand up the front of his chest, his form hard and smooth, eventually leading my hand to the back of his neck. We lock eyes and a storm brews in the green. I pull him in, my lips instructing his to exactly what is going on here.

At first his body seemed abandoned as I twist elegant shapes onto his lips. As my hands began to busy themselves with his shirt buttons, his lips responded in kind. No undershirt beneath, making my job all the more rewarding as my hands slid across his chest, him recoiling a bit, perhaps a bit too cold in the basement air. Instantly he pulls himself back in, planting two strong hands on my ass and pulling me in closer.

I was thrilled, pulling my mouth off his and tucking it into the side of his neck. I leave some teasing kisses there while my brain tries to catch up with my body, the refrain returns:

*Who the hell am I?*

Mike kisses the top of my head gently, his groping hands back under some control. “Fuck, V,” he says with a sort of melancholy, “what is this?”

“V” is a sobering moment, a nickname that only Mike uses. I feel the situation quickly falling out of control. I feel Mike’s strong hands pull back from where they had so hungrily advanced. We were about to head back upstairs and pretend this never happened. I felt like a balloon deflating in excruciating shame.

Then I answered my own question, I knew who I was, *and I couldn’t be her if I wanted to have any fun right now.*

Immediately I grabbed Mike by the wrists, and pulled his hands back on my body. One to my ass, one to my chest. His hands eagerly obeyed as I returned mine to his skin. I dug my nails into the back of his neck, pulling his head close my own and voicing my pleasure in his ear as a few of his fingers dipped into my bra.

His lips returned to my own, this time as the aggressor. Gently, but powerfully, he pulled me in close to him. The taste of fine whiskey coupled with the sensation of his hardness pressed against me through however many layers of clothing separated us. I couldn’t help but drop a hand to massage it through the front of his pants. Much like every other part of Mike, it felt full of a quiet strength.

Out of practice and out of my mind, I tugged down the zipper on Mike’s pants, neglecting his belt, and tunneled a hand through the open hole. His dick still out of my reach, I could only squeeze it through his thin boxer briefs. It was heavy, but not too thick, gorgeously proportioned. Meanwhile Mike was growing more fixated on my chest, pulling me out of my bra and through the cut out of my top, before plunging his face into my newly bare breasts.
With a ravenous disregard to my outfit, Mike licked and kissed and sucked on me. One of my hands half-trapped in his fly stroking his manhood, the other now looping around and holding onto his ass for dear life. It was a firm handhold, I didn’t mind. His stubble tickled and teased sensitive skin as he unleashed some pent-up part of himself on me.

As soon as I was able to regain my balance, I united my hands to finally rid the world of his belt, my mouth involuntarily cooing and moaning in harmony with his handiwork. I tugged his pants down, then his more reluctant underwear, his dick now primed to make acquaintance with my palm.

Mike felt dangerously hard to the touch. I carefully organized each finger around his shaft, studying every detail and searching for the perfect grip. I tug on him once and his motor functions seem to shut down with a groan. Delicately I pluck his head from my chest and give him a knowing smile, he looks drunk in the muted light. I bring my lips back to his, slow whiskey-laced kisses taking a back seat to the new hypnotic control my grip has over him.

As our combined focus swells to my magnum opus of handjobs, I realize I desperately need more details. As elegantly as I could (read: not at all) I bring myself to my knees, one hand simultaneously servicing Mike and providing balance. The cold dirt floor of the basement stings more than I could’ve imagined against my bare knees as I spring my body up on them.

“V,” he calls down to me with a cautious uncertainty. Even when vulnerable, his voice has a sexy resonance to it. I bring my face to his cock while my left hand dutifully strokes it. Undoubtedly short excited pips of my breath escape my mouth as I consider my approach. Perhaps there was uncertainty in Mike’s voice, or maybe it was awe. Either way, no doubt sat in me, as I struggle to recall a moment I was more excited to give a guy head.

My face hung near the base of his dick, I take the opportunity to trace it back to the tip using the end of my tongue. Noises that border on exasperation spew forward from Mike, as I lean back forward and take his head in my mouth. My tongue commits each curve and angle to memory as I gradually slide Mike deeper and deeper into my mouth.

His cock says it first, throbbing unrelentingly in my mouth, before he lets out his new catchphrase, “Fuck, V.” I’m euphoric as I drum up a new rhythm of sliding him in and out of my mouth, my tongue coaxing it to come in further each time. Reluctantly, I pull my lips off of him to catch my breath. Upon review, his dick was just as glorious as my initial estimate provided. Whenever I hear someone talk about a “beautiful dick” I can’t help but find it a bit oxymoronic. In my experience, Mike’s dick was the closest thing to just that.

I search my brain for what an appropriately dirty thing to say right now would be, but I’m stumped. At that moment, I realize I’m on my knees on a dirt floor, spilling out of my top, with my coworker’s dick in my hand. I think that’s sufficiently dirty. As far as I was personally concerned, there was no prior experience even close to rivaling this filth.

As I contemplate this deep pride in myself, we both hear it: the creaking floor boards above us. Mike arrived late and sure, we’d been at it for a bit, but I wasn’t ready for this reality: Molly had arrived for work.

Mike reflexively pulled back realizing what this meant. In stark opposition I nearly pulled the man back toward me by his dick, my mouth again receiving him like I had just been caught slacking at the job. Wincing off the groans, Mike tries to talk me out of it, only to be met with a chorus of “Shhh,” “Shut up!” and “Let me finish” that are unintelligible as anything other than hums as I’m unwilling to forfeit Mike from my mouth.

It didn’t take much convincing, I felt powerful. I’d come too far to not follow through. This was my only shot at fulfilling this newfound fantasy, I couldn’t just go halfway. I suck on Mike with purpose, as though I was siphoning the life out of him one pleasured groan at a time. Or perhaps it was the opposite, it was as though I was trying to resuscitate the man through high-stakes, high-skill dicksucking. It was desperate, it was dirty, it was sloppy.

The taste of rapidly pooling precum combined with whiskey and what was left of my lipstick informed me that I was nearly there. Luckily, Molly hadn’t called out for us yet. Who even knows if Mike closed the basement door. Who cares. Mike grew in my mouth, throbbing, and bucking with each trip of my lips from shaft to tip. It was bliss. I felt electric. I didn’t want it to end, yet it had turned into a desperate sprint.

Unexpectedly, I felt a hand slide onto the back of my head. A hand that felt strong enough to crush it, yet slid its fingers gently through my short hair. Whispers of disbelief and encouragement drip down from above, grip on my hair tightening ever so slightly, as I heard the highly sought warning that I was about to achieve what I set out to do.

I brace myself as Mike erupts in my mouth, I can hear him moan through clenched teeth. Too good to stay quiet, I was flattered. It was *hot*. In all too hurried a fashion, I feel Mike pull back nearly mid-spasm, his cock fleeing my lips as he urgently tries to get dressed. Nevertheless a gentleman, Mike first helps me to my feet before attending to belts and buttons.

He’s silent, clearly perturbed by the potential of being caught. I long to break the silence as I struggle to swallow down what he left me. Instead, he rushes back upstairs before I can open my empty mouth. “Lipstick!” I call out to him in an elevated whisper, but he doesn’t hear me.

Wonderful dick, great body, sweet man: still kind of a fucking idiot.
I have no idea what he said to Molly, or what she thought of him, undoubtedly covered in smeared blue lipstick on his face and neck. Too slow-witted a man and too unnatural a color to make an excuse, he was screwed. Instead of inserting myself in that situation, I cleaned myself up. The way Mike had stripped me out of my shirt was a work of art, or at least a work of great effort as I wiggled and tucked my way back into my resilient crop top.

I pulled the lightbulb cord and pulled open my phone to check my hair and makeup. Hair was salvageable, lipstick like a halloween costume gone wrong. Yeah, Mike was indeed fucked. I waited until I heard an opening and ran upstairs to the bathroom to clean myself up.

Upon coming out, looking like nothing had ever happened, I wandered my way back to the bar. As soon as Molly spotted me, a look of pure glee came across her face. Like she had just won a sizable lottery ticket, seen a particularly hilarious bit of slapstick, and run into a friend she hadn’t seen in a year, Molly was all smiles and giggles. “Blue ***LIPSTICK!***” she announced, Mike hopefully out of earshot.

I shrugged coyly which sparked more laughter. She slapped me with a joke about me asking her to come late. Clearly having Mike as a partner in crime ensured everyone would know.

The night went on as any other Saturday shift would have. Busy. Some regulars, some pubcrawl style groups. Whenever I’d run into Molly she would smile ear-to-ear like a proud aunt. How strange, yet utterly appropriate for this job and this group. Promiscuity was a badge of honor with Molly and Cheryl, one I had never worn on this scale, but one that I was overjoyed to wear tonight. *“I bagged a big one”* -Molly’s joke

When a lull arrived, I got to actually talk to Mike about what happened. He apologized for his abrupt exit, much to my surprise, citing his relationship rather than the very clear threat of Molly walking down on us. “We’re broken up in everything but title” he pled to me. Like I said, he was our conscience, and I had dealt him a near lethal dose of guilt. He articulated this heartfelt explanation with his eyes shamelessly down the front of my top.

I apologized, but didn’t mean it. The only thing I was sorry about was that he didn’t fuck me. I still didn’t know who the hell I was, but I liked her. *She was fun.*

Mid-shift, Molly poured us another round of whiskey, taking her turn to toast to Mike’s next step in life. A nearby regular caught wind of what was happening and bought Mike a shot as well, I poured it for him, made it a double.

I wasn’t completely satisfied with how things had gone down, after all I had built it up all week in my head, so I tortured Mike where I could. I’d slide in front of him as he was pouring drinks to grab a customer’s card, thrusting my ass up into him in the close-quarters. I’d spend a strangely large amount of my shift bent over inspecting the cleanliness of some of the glasses behind the bar. I’d take a sip from his water glass and leave a blue smudge on the rim.

At one point, a customer even called him out for having a little blue smudge on the corner of his jaw, clearly a missed spot from when he cleaned up. I had nothing to do with that one. Didn’t put the customer up to it or anything. Nope.

I could see him starting to wear down. I felt like a bit of a She Devil, but I *wasn’t me*, so my warped morality could justify it. On the 300th time I could feel his eyes on my ass, I turned around and called him on it. He stammered, unable to find a good answer before saying he liked my skirt or something like that. I told him he already said that and he looked helpless. Relishing in it, and possessed by the ghost of some seductress that used to drink here, I found the guts to answer back something like, “Well if you want to finish what you started, I’ll be back down there on your next break” before grabbing his ass hard and walking away.

Again, I nearly cringe thinking back on it, but desperate times called for desperate measures. His face looked broken and defeated and I rejoined Molly in some conversation we were having before. Molly laughed giddily, saying there was something fun about tonight, unwilling to spell it out.

The shift crept into the late hours of the night. The drunks got drunker and things generally slowed down. I was free with my information that tonight was Mike’s last and plenty of jolly patrons were more than happy to send him off with a shot. At some point, I was spacing out, leaning on my elbows on the bar thinking about the night’s earlier conquest when Mike walked by. “I’m grabbing a 15,” he announced to Molly, his hand reaching over and grabbing my ass in retaliation as he passed.

That was it, the white flag. I won. I was ecstatic, but forced it down. I surveyed the room, things weren’t crazy busy, I told Molly I’d be right back and smugly strode down the basement steps.

Feeling as powerful as I had felt all night without a dick in my mouth, I spied Mike leaning on the wall near our favorite half-closet, half-alcove checking something on his phone. I teased him immediately – *or should I say SHE teased him immediately?* – with something to the tune of “What are YOU doing down here?”

He cursed me out playfully, telling me he couldn’t get me out of his head, that I didn’t play fair. He whined about why this was happening during his last shift of all times. He returned to his line about being “almost, completely broken up.” Nevertheless he was here, he took my invitation. I all but made him admit it before walking over to him.

Immediately his hands were on me. Those whiskey lips reunited with mine. This time I remembered to go for his belt first, his hands electing my skirt as their first target. Squeezing his hands up my skirt, Mike nearly tore my underwear off me, instead it plummeted to the dirt floor.

I had his dick free again, stroking it familiarly. Elsewhere, Mike’s fingers explore up my skirt, toying with my pleasure. Keeping just enough of myself out of the moment, I whisper to him, like a question “15?”

“15” he answers back, a reminder of how long we had.

Immediately he pulls his hand out, and manhandles me. Drunkenly, powerfully turning me over, I’m happy to follow along, pulling up my skirt and steadying myself on the rack of bulk cleaners in front of me. I had been ready to take him since we left the basement the first time. No time for foreplay and no need.

I hear him whisper a question behind me, I can’t hear him on the first, second, or third time before it finally dawns on me, he’s asking if I have a condom. I scramble through my thoughts before daintily denouncing the idea, ***“fuck it”*** I believe was my eloquent answer of choice. I had been on birth control since I was a teenager, might as well get some return on investment finally. I trusted him, right?

A bouquet of dish cleaner and bleach were my ambience as I leaned forward, feeling Mike’s hands on my lower back and hips. I ached for him in a way that was frighteningly new. I balanced myself on one hand as the other reported for duty at the base of my skirt: what was taking so long? I tug up on my skirt, an invitation or more accurately, a demand.

I’m not above begging at this point, but Mike spared me. I could feel the tip of his cock slide delicately in me. Mike cursed angrily, “V…” accompanied by something graphic about how I felt or what I was doing to him.

I grind my teeth, I wanted more and I wanted it faster. Either “still a gentleman” or a little drunk, Mike quickly makes good on this craving. Before I can fully process what’s happening, he’s crashing deeper and deeper into me.

There’s not much room to maneuver, so I hold onto whatever seems stable and muffle the foreign sounds cascading out of my mouth. I shift my hips in rhythm, a necessary challenge to accommodate his size and enthusiasm. My whole body echoes that ache for him as he delivers as much as he possibly can straight into me.

Dirty flattery carries out behind me in whispered breaths and groans. I’m not sure if he can keep up this highly motivated pace. I reach down to hike my skirt up, it sliding occasionally back into position, trying to make me look decent. That simply wasn’t the game we were playing. As I turn back briefly, Mike’s strokes become heavier, rougher and I immediately need my second hand back for support.

As I’ve countlessly relived the thought on many lonely nights, I like to imagine I egged him on and teased him as he fucked me into oblivion in that little closet, but in actuality, I was just hanging on for the ride. My seduction had been queued up: unwittingly across the years we worked together, and deeply intentional throughout the rest of the night as I teased and tortured him through his work. It made sense why I was simply holding on as he ravaged me, I eagerly brought this beast upon myself, I pulled the puppet strings for all he was worth.

Mike ever-enduring, I lost all track of time. The best kind of sore to ever be felt, I cheer him on through unfinishable sentences and moans. He had plenty to say to me behind me, pity they were all whispers and my head was basically stuffed between some boxes. I did catch one thing though, as Mike followed through on an especially cruel stroke and I questioned how it was anatomically possible, I again turned back to attend to my sliding skirt.

Eyes now adjusted to the dark, I can make out his highly-motivated green eyes behind me. I tug my disobedient skirt and our eyes lock, he immediately knows what he wants. I can’t completely decipher what he says, but the summary was “keep looking back at me.” I loved this side of Mike I was seeing: completely dismantled by me, so I was more than happy to put the nail in his coffin.

I hope whatever look I was giving him was sufficiently sexy as I couldn’t hold any expression for longer than a second as my whole body shivered and rejoiced with each dip of his hips. I couldn’t keep my mouth closed. Mike meanwhile, simply looked driven, furious almost. Hands clasped hard on my hips, providing a beautiful performance.

Through mumbled grunts and groans he said something about how he liked it when I looked at him, bemoaning that it was getting him close. All I can do is smile, the aggressive sensations coursing through my body taking up most of my brain power.

Finally, he announces *“Fuck, V.”*

I remember less how this happened by being there and more through recreating it like some forensics expert. I felt Mike pull out, my body grieving the loss, and heard him let out an untamed groan. At first he was quiet, but he seemed to lose whatever was containing him and his vocalized pleasure rang loud throughout our basement. I sort of just rested myself on my arms, my legs feeling a bit wobbly and my chunky heels not doing me any favors.

I could feel his cock bump clumsy and wet near my ass. As a moment passed and the pleasured noises seemed to cease, I turned back around to see Mike tucking himself back into his pants. Instinctively, I thought to do the same and reached to pull down my skirt, only to discover that he had unleashed himself all over it. That added up. Maybe *“fuck it”* didn’t properly communicate all of *“I’m on the pill, you don’t need to pull out and make a mess of my skirt.”*

I wiped what cum was now on my hand on the shelf in front of me as Mike helped properly pull me to my feet.

Just as I had embarrassingly rehearsed in my apartment earlier that week I leaned over and whispered in his ear *“Just wanted to send you off right.”*

I could faintly see a small smile come across his face before he left without a word. Climbing back up the stairs, undoubtedly a decent amount of blue lipstick smear on his face. Beautiful idiot.

Finding myself again a mess in the basement, I took a moment to assess the damage. Fortunately being around cleaning products, I was able to clean up the sizable amount of excitement Mike had left on his favorite skirt.

Whenever I imagined myself in salacious moments like this, I always pictured this being the true sobering moment, where you go “get your shit together, girl” with a guilty smile on your face. In practice, I was just smiling from ear-to-ear. I drew up a plan, executed on it perfectly, and felt great. Deeply proud of my safe and contained foray into promiscuity.

By the time I had reemerged from the basement, a reborn woman, there was only an hour or so left before close. Molly gave me a look like *“Really?”* that seemed to spell out that perhaps my actions were even more gratuitous than she’d approve of. Her response: she wanted some of my tips for the night, having left her alone at the bar and cracking some other dirty joke about other “tips” I may have received.

Mike was *VERY* distant the rest of the night. Almost like I had sapped his soul from his body. When time came for us to actually close and head out, he gave us both an unspirited (or exhausted) goodbye, giving Molly a warm hug and me a slightly more professional one.

As the big, dumb, beautiful man stumbled out of the bar and our lives for the last time, Molly looked at me with a faux-indignation, *“Now what the hell did you do to him?”* before bursting into laughter.

So that was that. I still look back fondly on my night of being a monster, and I can’t say anything similar has happened since, and who knows if it will again. I love reading everyone else’s far more extreme stories and thought it was time to share the best one I had, sorry if it’s not quite scandalous enough. This need to share was made all the more clear when I received some maybe-drunken texts from Mike during the lockdown, the first time we talked since that night. Seems like he just wants to go back to being friends, but made a few pointed comments about me “having to see him” if I’m ever passing through his new city when all the COVID stuff has passed.

*Hm. That sounds like fun.*

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/gt076w/fm_sending_a_beloved_coworker_off_right