The Product Tester – Part III [MF]

Lindsay leaned against the latched stall door and breathed deeply. She tried not to think about what had just happened. The shame — she should just leave the office and drive home so she wouldn’t have to face any of her co-workers. No, that won’t work — her purse and car keys were still up there in her office.

Facing her co-workers after this would be hard, but running away would be even worse. “I can handle this,” she told herself. She flushed the toilet, unlocked the stall, and spent some time washing her hands and looking at herself in the mirror.

Her lipstick was smudged; she tidied it up with a damp paper towel. Her hair was mussed — he must have grabbed her head as he began to climax. She smoothed her hair back into place with her dampened hands. She checked her blouse, her jacket, and her her skirt, and straightened them out.

She was sweating. She could feel the dampness under her arms, between her breasts, on the back of her neck. A few more deep breaths to calm herself, then she left the restroom and took one step after another, back to the elevator.

By the time the car stopped on her floor, Lindsay felt almost okay. She composed her face and tried to think of what to say if anyone asked where she’d been for so long. It hadn’t been that long, really, had it?

One step at a time out of the elevator, past the reception desk, down the hall, and back into her office. Nobody looked up or said anything as she walked by; it was a work day and everyone was working. She walked into her office, dimmed the lights, and closed the door.

The work space was mostly “open plan” — clusters of desks and whiteboards in an open area, with offices surrounding them. All the offices had windows facing into the open space, with vertical blinds that could be opened or closed. Lindsay generally kept her blinds partway open — enough for people walking past to see that she was in her office, and to see if she had company. She tilted the blinds all the way closed and sat down at her desk.

She had emails to read: one from Debbie, one addressed to “all” about the shortage of parking and the need to display a valid parking permit, two more resumes from job applicants, just mundane stuff. Job applicants. Suddenly she was reliving the scene in the elevator, on her knees, feeling the rough hairs brushing against her lips, smelling the faint scent of soap and musk, tasting the salty precum as she worked her mouth and tongue around this stranger’s hard cock.

Her pussy felt hot and tingly. She absently moved her right hand down to her belly and rubbed her mound, just a little. Just enough to relieve the heat, the tiny glowing spark down there that kept interrupting her thoughts. She found the right spot, there, and rubbed it gently through the layers of clothing: rayon skirt, nylon half slip, panty hose, and cotton panties. She was shocked to feel her clit engorged and standing up like a tiny stiff dick.

She rubbed a little more, and shuddered. This wasn’t going to work: the more she tried to rub the feeling away, the more aroused she got. Lindsay wasn’t much into masturbating — she got all the sexual stimulation she needed (well, almost) from her husband, and had no trouble climaxing most times they made love together. Masturbating when you’re married was like cheating, right?

She thought again about her first boyfriend, the one who schooled her in the art of the cocksucker. The first time he went down on her after a particularly delicious blow job, she was shocked and didn’t know how to react; all she’d ever fantasized about as a horny teenager was dicks and pussies and fucking. She may have heard about oral sex once or twice, but couldn’t believe it was something normal people would do. Well, apart from sucking cocks, that is.

Never mind, his tongue on her clit and pussy felt amazing even while it felt shameful and dirty, and she would let him tease her that way until she was at the very brink of orgasm, then jam his dick into her and fuck her till she came, and came, and came. Bobby, her husband, on the other hand, preferred to keep things simple: fondling, fucking, then cuddling to sleep in each others’ arms.

She brought herself to the edge almost without thinking, and then finally let go. The orgasm came in short, sharp waves, building up as she clenched her teeth to avoid crying out. At last she was finished, limp and quivering at her desk, at work, in the middle of the afternoon.

She sat there as her breathing slowed down to a normal pace. There had to be a huge wet spot on her skirt and chair, she thought. She sniffed the fingers on her right hand, remembering the time her boyfriend had fingered her pussy, then brought his fingers to her lips to taste. That memory brought another wave of pleasure, and she ground her thighs together almost unconsciously.

Her office phone buzzed. The other candidate she was supposed to interview had called to cancel. “So what,” she thought. “I’ve already made up my mind.”

The worst thing in the world right now would be to have a huge wet spot on the back of her skirt. She stood up carefully, her legs like jelly, and carefully checked her clothes. So far, so good. She turned on the lights and opened the blinds halfway.

She looked at the clock in the corner of her computer screen. She could leave almost anytime now; it was after four p.m. She started shutting down her computer, then remembered one last time to check her Yahoo mail.

There it was. “Thank you for your interest in our product research. You appear to be a good match for the target market for this product. Please download, print, and sign the attached forms, then mail them back to us at the address below.”

That was all. No information about the product itself, at least not in the email. Maybe the files included with the message had more, but she didn’t want to be reading or printing them at work.

She shut down her computer, left the office, picked up something for dinner, collected the kids from daycare, then went home and waited for her husband.

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