Working Woman's Wife

I couldn't get rid of the vendor on line 1, there was a call hanging on line 2, I was ten minutes late for a conference call from Tokyo, and the senior VP was tapping his foot in my doorway. Worse, I had just spilled a four dollar latte on my white Ralph Lauren skirt.

"Just a minute!" I shouted at the SVP, "Goodbye!" I screamed at the vendor, and "Wait!" I demanded of the caller on 2.

"You should have worn a beige skirt to match your coffee," the SVP snorted. "See me when you calm down."

"What is it?" I demanded of line 2. My husband, David, on 2, was patient. He didn't deserve my animosity, but he happened to be in the line of fire. Collateral damage.

"Well, the baby sitter called," he said. "Jamie fell down and whacked his head, there's no more formula and the smoke alarm is going off."

"That's all!" I screamed. "I work ten-hour days, my boss is telling me to get on a plane to Atlanta tomorrow, and I still have to make dinner when I get home. I haven't had time to wipe my butt."

"I'm sorry," he said. "Are you having your period?"

That did it. I threw the phone toward the cradle, missed it and had it rebound to hit my knee. "I need a wife," I moaned.

Cheryl popped into my cubicle wearing a worried frown. "What's happening, Stacey?" Cheryl's a two or three years older than me, but always has everything together, never a hair out of place, makeup is brilliant, and she's an assistant manager.

"I've had it. I work like the devil, my sixty-five thou a year barely covers the baby sitter and housekeeping since my husband is on part-time. He's stressed out, so our love-making is a thing of the past."

Now she was concerned, coming around to massage my neck with two strong hands — the ones with the perfect manicures. Cheryl was the peace-maker, Ms. Agreeable, the gal who rationalized management's idiotic decisions and made sure everyone contributed equally to the coffee fund. I really liked Cheryl, who was good-looking and personable, but she was spoken for by a husband too.

"I can't leave you alone. I worry about you. You're my office spouse."

"Whaaaat?" Cheryl's possessiveness turned my face red. I already had a husband. Kind of.

"You heard me, Stacey. We have lunch together every day. We go outside for cigarettes at 10 o'clock and 2 o'clock. You and I buy the bagels on alternate days. And we like the same things. That makes us as married as cubicle rats are ever going to be, so don't throw a hissy-fit."

I blinked rapidly, my eyelids doing a little Venetian blind thing. Much as I adored Cheryl, I didn't need to learn I was her property to have and hold till retirement.

"I don't like your insinuations, Cheryl. You're a dear friend, but you don't own me."

"Hey, I know that and you know that, but do you think anybody else cares? We're just Social Security numbers here and house slaves when we get home. And now the bad news. You and I have to work late tonight to get the marketing statistics together for the Board meeting."

"I'm going to go have lunch," I muttered.

"First, come with me. I have most of the statistics done." She actually took my hand and pulled me down the hall to a small conference room. Inside, she pulled the blinds and clicked the lock.

"What?"

"This," she said, pulling me into her arms and crushing my lips with her full mouth. "You," she said between kisses, "told me (kiss) you're not getting any love in bed (kiss), your husband's too tired (another kiss), your child is fitful (this time the tongue pried my teeth apart and entered my mouth.). And it's all making you cranky."

"My God, Cheryl, what are you doing?" That wasn't a question. Just as you're not supposed to hit someone at work, you're not supposed to feel up another woman in her cubicle. I think it's a government law or equal opportunity or something.

"I'm doing the natural thing. We're two women who have obligations, we're fanning our 401(k)s with our paycheck to put out the fire, but we're not being satisfied. Not at work, not at home, and certainly not by our husbands. So, shut up and kiss me like you want to."

I didn't know whether to laugh with relief or cry in terror as my hands involuntarily crept around Cheryl's neck to bring her head back to mine. At the same time, I felt her hand rise to cup my breast in a way no one had done for weeks. It so satisfying to have a warm palm hefting my breast and another lifting my ass and kneading it.

The hands slipped up under the Ralph Lauren skirt (I'm sure Ralph didn't mind) and began pulling down my bikini panties. I scrunched my eyes together and hugged this endearing person, inhaling her perfume and feeling the first warmth in who know how long.

Kicking the panties aside, I opened my thighs to invite her fingers to wiggle their way in and tickle my bush. They found my clit, making me jump and arch my back like a cat in heat. My own hands found their way to her slacks and quickly unhooked them. A thong! Cheryl didn't seem like the thong type, but it's wonderful how you get to know someone as you begin to get naked.

"Tell me we're doing the right thing," I mumbled, already knowing the answer.

"It's the most natural conclusion I can think of, my dearest."

Though we both had our tops on, she gently pushed me back over the Xerox machine and those red lips moved down my belly to open the lips of my pussy. Shock electrified me. David had never eaten me, because of germs or because I wasn't 100 percent organic or for some Puritanical reason, I don't know.

Cheryl's tongue found its way around the labia and gently moved up into me as I gave a little mouse-like shriek. I lay back over the Xerox so rigidly my back ached. I wanted affection so badly I was willing to take my co-worker any way she could give it to me. And Cheryl did, bringing me to a new height I hadn't felt for sooo long as her tongue probed to find my G spot. I shuddered as an orgasm swept up my body like a tidal wave of desire.

I wished I could do her the way she had made love to me, that we were both naked, body to body, mouths finding each other's sweet spots with tongues lapping up the juice of love.

"We're not lesbians, are we, Cheryl?"

"We're simply two women supporting each other's needs," she answered, patting her lips with a tissue.

Then it was over. "We have to go back to work, Stacey," she whispered. "This was just our — what? — engagement party, an overture to what we can do by working late."

I was so elated I wanted to cry.

"Want to know the good news?" she said. "If you'll be my office wife, we can't get in trouble with Personnel 'cause the handbook only says men and women can't fraternize on the job. We can't get jail time as bigamists, and there are no lawyer fees if somehow we can't make it as a married couple and need to separate."

A little laugh started inside me. "One more thing," I told her. "I don't think you'll make me pregnant. One child is enough."

Modern love was being an office spouse. Eternity stretched ahead, or at least until one of us retired. I would be damned to suffer as a cubicle rat if I didn't grasp the brass ring as the carousel whirled around. A second marriage was just what I needed in today's workplace.