Letting Go Ch. 02

Chapter 2: Toe Fucking at Lunch

(This story continues directly after the events of Letting Go I)

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She had to run to catch her bus. Her skirt was short and she was wearing no knickers, her knees were weak after the morning love games, her loins tenderized from the breakfast spanking, and, to make her vulnerability even worse, her heels were threatening to scatter beneath her, betray her and send her splaying arse backward on the sidewalk.

She tried not to meet the bus driver's eye. There was still the rest of the crowd. This was the late bus, the full bus, all around her faces and hands sitting at the level of her skirt, and standing arms and hands holding on at the level of her breasts, fingers tap-tap tapping at their mobiles, warm and dextrous, manipulating.

She had to take her mind off the moisture at her thighs. No one is looking, she told herself. After all, she asked herself, was it something she herself would have been looking for? And no one was sniffing, she told herself. She tried not to breathe so hard, tried to keep her breasts from heaving in their pretty pink T, the lovely lace of her bra, tried to keep her skirt from fluttering.

Her workmates were already there, moving in and out of the bathroom, attending to their make up, chatting about the coffee urn, officially here, but not willing to start work a moment before they had to. Their eyes glittered at her as she hurried in. She slowed herself. Be nonchalant, she told herself. Be like you're walking out onto a dance floor.

She gave them a dance floor smile, a performer's smile, and their bodies relaxed. The spiteful glitter went from their eyes, and they lost interest in her, so gracefully, sexily, she moved past them to her chair. She had, at least, arrived ahead of the boss, and there wasn't really any gossip in the matter.

They would have loved knowing that she was wearing no undies, that she had arrived at work flushed and almost late with no knickers. That would have given them something to talk about. They had so little to talk about, TV and celebrities, office gossip, things they chewed over and over again.

She made it to her chair. She sat down. Her skirt was short, not really long enough to sit on. Like her lover at home, sitting on his wheelie chair, fibers prickling his buttocks while he worked. He would never really have put the C on her, laying her on the edge of the bed, lifting her this way, turning her that way, hands busy, methodically, about her private parts, cleaning, rubbing lotion in, fingers solicitously inspecting, patiently probing despite her sudden wild thrusting, his hand pressing down on her pube, then pressing the leather down about her, pulling it up tight along her slit, so that at every heaving breath it pushed against her and she was so weak at the knees she could barely crawl. He liked to watch her like that some Sundays, when they played their games. But he would never really have done it this morning. He could not have borne the ugliness it would have made of the lines of her skirt.

Her boss arrived, sweeping into the bathroom. She had been thinking of her boss when she had bought the underwear, simple and girly, the way her boss made her feel. Her breasts and her bra were made for each other, and that morning, she had admired herself in the mirror, thinking of her boss. Her panties had sat across her like a fine tattoo. She had looked at herself, the beauty she had made of herself, and thought of her boss.

The lace, the silk, the excitement of the idea of it, the idea of her boss's eyes and boss's fingers finding these fine things alive in the boring world of the office, had betrayed her. When her lover had made her laugh, she had started a game, and it had all unraveled against the clock, and so here she was with no knickers at all, yet her loins were alive and her breasts were warm, and she tried not to stare as she watched her boss go through that door.

Rising, she followed her boss into the bathroom.

"Only me," she sang out, so her boss would hear her voice.

She took her brush from her handbag and began brushing her hair, watching her hair in the mirror flow about her face and become charged with electricity so she had to run her fingers over it. There was a sound of flushing. She turned as a cubicle door opened and her boss came out, sleek skirt running below the knees and a dark office jacket to match, structured and business like. She felt so floral and feminine in comparison. Yet under the jacket her boss wore a shiny, satiny, loose-flowing blouse, the soft smoothness a temptation to the fingers.

Her boss smiled. Her boss had an honest, straightforward, smile, white teeth and a mobile mouth.

"You look nice today," her boss said.

When her work mates said that, they usually meant the opposite or, at best, that the receiver of the compliment had looked far from nice on other days. When her boss said it, it was like she was glad to see someone happy.

"Help yourself," she answered, then smiled at her boss's sudden look of confusion, and so she indicated the wash basin behind her. Her boss came forward. There were three wash basins in the room, but her boss came to the one she was standing in front of, choosing hers. She had to move aside, but she stayed close, watching the water run over her boss's hands, over her fingers, and all the rings glinting and glimmering there. The rings caught her eyes. Even when her boss moved to the dryer and raised her hands to the breeze, she watched them.

"Are you married?" she asked, casually, like an ice-breaker, just starting a normal, meaningless conversation.

"Divorced," her boss answered, looking back at her. Her boss was the sort of person who studied the faces of the people she spoke to.

Oh." She thought of a wedding night, falling lace, and a bed.

"I have two kids," her boss added, as if deciding to answer the question that always came next, perhaps answering because she had not asked. "Teenagers." She stopped smiling, and looked tired.

"Oh." She wanted her boss to smile again. "But you're here now. And you have all those beautiful rings." She wanted her boss to feel beautiful again.

"Yes. Well. Some days I like to be armed."

"Armed?"

The dryer stopped. Her boss looked at her for a moment.

"You know. Some days, when you are expecting things to be difficult, you put on your best make up and your best jewelry, and get ready to face the world. It's like a mask, or an armor."

Her boss wasn't wearing make-up, though. Glancing in the mirror, checking herself before she went to face the world, her boss added, "I don't have time to put on make-up, though," she added ruefully, letting a small smile come back to her face. She straightened her jacket so that it was snug across the shoulders.

"Are you expecting a difficult day?"

Her boss looked at her straight, not expecting sympathy.

"Meetings. And middle management isn't so easy," she admitted at last, and turned to the door.

"Hey." She couldn't let this chance go, this moment alone, whatever her boss's mood. "Would you like to go out to lunch?"

Her boss paused, and she knew this was a difficult situation for her.

"I know," she told her boss. "There are a lot of reasons why not. Office politics." Office politics and office gossip went hand in hand, and would always get in the way of an office romance. "But we could go quietly, meet around the corner from the smokers. We could have a giggle over lunch and be back before anyone noticed. Why not?"

Her boss looked at her, thinking, being a person who considered ways and means, a manager whose job was to consider 'how' before deciding 'if'. Or, more often, being told 'if' and being left to work out the 'how' anyway. In this case, weighing a character.

"All right," she said, smiling, and went.

She wanted to hug herself. Smoothing her hair down, letting the charge out, letting her fingers trace across her breasts above her T just once, letting herself glow. Then she brought back some control. Her work mates work mates would wonder what she'd been up to if she came out of the bathroom looking too happy.

Letting herself slump a little, droop a little, she passed them by, eyes lowered, keeping her mouth in a line of sorrow lest there be even a hint of a smile, and slid into her chair. She put her feet flat on the floor, sat up straight and squared her shoulders as if for battle, riffling some invoices while she stared hard at her monitor. After a while she remembered to turn it on.

Her lover was working at home, moving between the kitchen and his study. He'd take the knickers from where they were drying on the draining board and hang them on the on the drafting board where he could see them while he worked.

Her lover loved women and adored their clothes. In a while he'd even be wearing her panties. His cock would grow big in them, pushing at the lace, and the feel of that lace pushing back, prickling tickling at it's head would stir him. His hand would be there, pulling at the lace to give himself room. His fingers would touch the silk and then return to feel that softness again and again. He would pull at his dick, wrapping the lace into that soft, silk skin.

There was nothing as smooth as the silky skin a man's cock. He would jerk and jerk himself. He would not be able to keep himself for her, wouldn't be able to wait for tonight. Those panties would call him and he would come, moan and spasm, roar and tear. They would tear and he would rub the shreds along his length. For a long time afterwards, cleaning himself, and then, while he worked, idly rubbing himself, silk on silk.

He wouldn't wonder why she had chosen such fine underwear that day.

Lunch time came. She gave her workmates a chance to hurry out ahead of her before sauntering out herself. Outside, a warm sunshine caught at her eyes. She walked around the corner, past the smokers, and once past them could breathe the afternoon breeze. The air tickled up around her, trying to lift her skirt, but her handbag held it down. In a while, she found herself walking in step with her boss. Separately, they swung up aboard a tram. There didn't seem to be anyone from the office there. Still, they didn't speak, but when she stepped down and onto the footpath, her boss followed. When she stepped past the diners at the outside tables and into the dimness of a restaurant, her boss was right behind her.

The waiter was a slender, wiry young man, with an abundance of black curls, as if workaday matters couldn't stop the luxury of life glowing within him, and dark, bright eyes.

"Inside, up the back," she told him softly. She liked the lightness of his skin across his cheeks. With a slight bow, and smile that agreed that they were friends now, he lead them to the very back, past the tables with their thick, white cloths, the walls with their pictures of nude women, famous old art, to something like a booth, high backs that gave them privacy. Best of all, no one else from the office was here. She took notice of the faces she passed. No one at all from work.

Across the isle from them, two women kissed across their table, deeply, passionately, all their sensuality pouring from their lips, making them beautiful.

She smiled at her boss.

"Take your coat off," she told her boss. "Make yourself comfortable."

"What shall I call you?" Her boss asked, squirming a little to get the coat off. She watched as the satiny blouse was pulled sidewise a little as the coat came off. She was curious about her boss's breasts. "We can't have a relaxed lunch," her boss went on, "calling each other 'Ms Gentisaris' and 'Ms Nuth' the whole time. You can call me Brenda. May I call you Catherine?"

Catherine was the name on the dotted line at work.

"My friends call me Kitten," she answered. But her boss's eyebrows rose. "I guess they're mostly older than I am."

"Now why would that be?"

Most her friends were the ones she had made since she met her lover.

"We met through dancing. Ballroom dancing." That was how she had met her lover.

Most people there wouldn't dance with him. They were confused by him. Yet he had been cheerful, laughing, making everyone laugh even as they were turning him away. Everyone thought she only danced with him because she was new, a beginner, and didn't know anyone else. They had assumed she'd move on as soon as she could.

She didn't know if she wanted to tell her boss about her lover, though. Strangely, she was willing to offer her body to a relative stranger, longing to, but she was more protective of her lover.

"Ballroom dancing? Well, you do carry yourself well."

The waiter came back to take their orders. He looked them in the eyes, he listened while they spoke. His voice was deep and soft when he answered.

"Yours sounds like a very light lunch," Brenda said when he had gone.

"That's the way I like it. A taut tummy and tight twat, and I'm ready for anything."

That made her boss laugh.

"I'll never be able to see you typing away so righteously at your keyboard without thinking of that. "

"Cheers, then." They sipped their water.

"I wonder why the nudes are always women," Brenda said, obviously for something to say as she looked around and noticed the paintings along the walls. "Maybe men just look funny nude."

"Maybe. Once, I went with some friends to an art exhibition." Her boss looked interested at that, so she went on. "There was one old painting I just didn't understand. It was of a nude man with a spear thrust threw him. It was weird, because he actually seemed kind of happy. He looked ecstatic. Well, a friend told him that we were supposed to think he looked happy because he was about to meet his maker, whom he loved. But really, the artist had just wanted to paint his lover, but people could get in trouble for being gay in those days, so he added the spear afterwards to put people off the track."

"Really? And you remembered all that?"

"Well, my friend had his hand on my breast at the time, which kind of concentrated my mind wonderfully. The rest of the gang had gone on ahead, but this one stayed and put his arm around my shoulders while I was standing there, trying to make sense of the picture. After a while, he started explaining it to me, and while he talked, he just sneaked his hand down inside my shirt, right inside my bra, and just had a warm little play with it the whole time he was telling his story. Then, when he finished telling me his story, he gave me little pat and went to catch up with the others."

"In the art gallery?" She nodded. "You are full of surprises," Brenda said then. "You look so prim and proper in your pinks and florals, who would guess what's really going on in your mind?"

She was surprised to think of her little pink T-shirt and her flirty floral skirt swirling above her bare legs and come-fuck-me sandals as prim and proper. She looked at her boss's hands again, the long nails, and the diamond rings, hands for looking good in front of men, but not accustomed to fucking women. She imagined cold diamonds and gold being worked inside her folds.

"Oh, I'm not so proper. Look," she added softly, making her boss lean closer to hear. "This is what I bought the other day." She pulled her T-shirt down and aside to show off her lacy bra. "It's so pretty, I couldn't resist."

And her boss was looking.

"Your meals." The waiter had returned. He was waiting until they were ready to give him their attention. It didn't hurt to give him a little peek, too. Her boss straightened up, though, making room on the table for the plates and the wine. Cate let her hand smooth her T-shirt back into place lingeringly, feeling the lace, and the warmth underneath. The waiter gave another of his ready, sunny smiles, bending close to her as he placed her plate.

"Don't look so worried," she told her boss. "I tell you what, why don't slip off your bra. It would help you feel free, and relaxed. Just for lunch, if you like. You could put it on again afterwards, like armor for when you go back to work. But just for here, where no one's looking, you could be out of your harness."

"I can't do that here!" Her boss was shocked now.

"Of course you could. Have some of your wine, then go to the bathroom. I'll mind the table." She picked up a strawberry from the side serve she had ordered. It was big and ripe. She held up to take a luxurious bite. Sweet.

"Mm, that's good," she told her boss, dipping the remainder of the strawberry into her wine to try it that way. "Good strawberries. Sweet. And the wine's good with them too. Try, go on."

Her boss had ordered pasta and a glass of red, and was smiling at the girl's wholehearted enjoyment of her salad.

"Perhaps I will go to the bathroom."

Her boss went, taking her handbag but not her coat. Across the way, the two women had ceased their kissing, for their plates had arrived. Like her boss, they had chosen aromatic pastas and vibrant reds, and just as they had been passionate in their kiss, now they ate with gusto. She liked them, so alive and awake to the world, like her waiter.

Her boss came back, cool satin covering everything, but her breasts free beneath it now.

"What about yours, Cate, will you relax too?"

"Oh," she wrapped a strawberry up in some lettuce, "I feel too pretty to want to take my bra off. But, guess what?" She moved her feet a little to touch her boss's. "See, I've slipped my sandals off." She tried a cherry tomato, making it burst flavour across her mouth. "They must have their own garden here. The food is so good." She could feel her boss's feet being slipped out of their shoes. Her boss had bare feet, and shaven legs.

Then she thought she should stop. A woman who wore so many rings, a woman who was accustomed to men, might be too confused and frightened if she went too far. Better to go slow and let the idea come to her, better to at least keep the possibility of friendship. Friendship with privileges, hopefully, but friendship all the same.

"You haven't drunk much of your wine," Brenda said.

"Ah," Cate answered, and took a deep drink of the sparkling water. "First cleanse the palate," she explained. "Because if you're going to pay for a good wine, you may as well enjoy it." She dipped a finger deep into the wine and then, slowly, watching Brenda's face, sucked on it.

"Oh, what you remind me of, girl," Brenda told her. She dipped her own finger lightly into her red, red wine and then after a quick glance down the length of the room, slide the finger under her blouse. The blouse opened slightly and Cate saw a brown nipple there. "This is how I do it, sometimes." Slowly, the dripping finger circled that nipple. Small drops clung to the aureole, and showed red on the breast itself. A tanned breast. This was a woman who liked the sun.

"Oh," Cate answered, fervently. "Some wines I could drink all day."

Then the hand moved and the cloth of the blouse closed over.

A shadow fell across the table.

"Is everything all right?" It was the waiter.

"Oh, more water please. Lot's of water."

"I'll bring a carafe." And he was gone.

Brenda leaned forward.

"Do you think he saw."

"Let him see." Nudging Brenda's bare foot slightly, lifting it a little so that her toes could get at the tender arch. "He's beautiful." Brenda had surprisingly smooth skin on her feet. She had looked-after feet.

"You like the waiter."

"I'm thinking about dessert."

She felt Brenda's foot slide up her calf, and was so surprised gulped more of her lettuce than she had meant to. Brenda's foot caressed her calf, feeling the smoothness their, Cate's own silkiness. Cate paused, wondering whether it would be more fun to ignore what was happening, or give some sign and share in it. Then she remembered that Brenda might need a little encouragement, so she smiled softly across the table.