Workplace Escapades Ch. 02

Recollections of the days when I was young, busy, ambitious, curious and willing to try anything ...

I was taking 15 university hours and working the early shift at the neighborhood's oldest dive bar.

From 5 until 9 p.m. or so, I did homework in the wait station; ran the occasional discounted happy-hour drink to a table of schoolteachers; and flirted innocuously with Jake the bartender, a married 30-year-old with a surfer's blonde hair, sad, Kurt Cobain eyes and lanky limbs.

His bachelor party gift from me — after relentless pleading from him in irresistible sultry whimpers — had been a frenzied fuck, a one-time consummation of pent-up lust, atop the pool table in the abandoned upstairs party room. Our mutual pleasures left evidence in the form of dark pigmentation on the green billiard felt. We quietly joked: God forbid a black light ever be shone on the shadowy second floor.

That he remain faithful to his bride following the wedding was my one condition, and to my knowledge, he had.

Though we did not intend to fuck one another again, close proximity brought both of our bodies this satisfying warmth that made those slow hours together delightful.

At 7, a couple I'd served a few times before asked Jake for my section. I peeked around the doorframe as he pointed them toward my corner booth.

"Cassie will be right there," he said loudly to garner my attention, though his eyes fixed on the woman's curvy bottom, her husband's hand resting atop it, and I didn't blame him — it was a perfect pear whose bounce held hypnotic powers.

"It's the Porters!" I said approaching the table. "Hey beautiful," said Mr. Porter, a man with a George Clooney smile who looked younger than his years. He was in his late 40s and had made millions in the tech boom. His wife was 10, maybe 15, years his junior; she sat smiling up at me, fresh-faced, her hair wildly wavy, her deep, dark cat eyes slightly sleepy.

They ordered two bottled Coronas, two Patron shots and "whatever you want darling," Ms. Porter said.

I typically didn't drink so early while working on a school night, but went ahead and ordered a shot of vodka to drop into my Red Bull.

"He wants you," Jake says as he pours the tequila, shooting a glance at the striking couple in the corner booth.

I smile and say I know. They have asked me before to come home with them. I always laughed it off, not sure how serious they are.

The idea turns me on but freaks me out, even though my activity, especially since conceding to Jake in the empty bar that night, has become increasingly adventurous.

It isn't as if I haven't given into profound curiosity in the past. There was that dressing room incident when I was working retail ...

And I have envisioned both Mr. and Ms. Porter while holding the vibrating shower head between my legs, I'll admit, imagining how her polished fingers' friction there might feel, or how his cock might fill me as his wife sat on my face.

By the time they guzzled two rounds, customers peppered the bar, and the other waitresses arrived. If we weren't too slammed by 11, Jake — also the manager on duty tonight — would cut me loose.

I encounter Ms. Porter in the bathroom. She is standing at the mirror applying color to her pouty, preternaturally pink lips, then powder to her nose, forehead, chin and, then, as she sees my reflection behind her, between her round lightly freckled breasts, at which I cannot resist glancing.

"When do you get off," she asks, as I wash my hands. "Soon, if we don't get too busy," I tell her, pulling a small tube of lotion from the apron around my waist. I squeeze white goo into my hand. She says it smells so good, asks for some and before I can offer her the tube she slips her hands over mine, rubbing the cream into both of our palms stroking my fingers as she says in her husky voice, "Come over then. Have a drink with us," she says, our slimy hands intertwined. "Our place is a block away. Mr. Porter can walk you back later."

I laugh a little because I've always called them Mr. and Ms. Porter, to which they have never objected.

And though I have school early the next day, the butterflies in my lower abdomen and hardening of nipples, which Ms. Porter notices, tells me this is no joke this time. She lets go of my hand and moves one of hers to, ever so gently, stroke the side of my boob her thumb brushes my erect nip, which is all it takes me to say, "OK."

At 10:30 when I tell Jake that I have agreed to have a nightcap with the Porters, his eyes light up. "Oh my god," he croaks. "I am rock hard right now just thinking of it," he says. I laugh. "Wrap everything up. You are done for the night. Just promise you'll tell me every detail."

After closing out my tables and making arrangements with the other girls to cover my station, I put on my coat, grab my bag, head out the kitchen door and meet the Porters at the side of the building. It's dark and quiet and Mr. Porter, stepping deep into my personal space says, "I can't believe you finally said yes, Cassie." He hugs me, lifting me off the ground and then, looking me in the eyes as if for permission, he kisses my mouth and my neck. Then I feel his tongue in my ear and Ms. Porter's hand on my ass. Then she takes my hand and I follow them, dizzy with excitement, to their second floor condo, just a block away from the bar.

Their place is hip and expensive — more spacious than you might imagine — with a massive bed in a high ceilinged bedroom. He pours drinks from a tiny wet bar between the room and bathroom. I sip pricey scotch and step into a bathroom bigger than my entire apartment. Colorfully tiled floors beneath a big bathtub. A wide, nylon upholstered bench is in front of a sprawling mirror.

"This room is our favorite," Mr. Porter says. "We like the tile because ..." he kisses his wife deeply and she finishes, "Because I'm a squirter. Hahah. Are you?" she asks?

I do not actually know what that means and I tell them and they say we will have to see.

I sit on the lounge, setting my drink on the marble counter. She opens a drawer and pulls forth a long, white gadget that hums when she presses its button.

"Hold this, honey," she says, handing the contraption to him.

She kneels in front of me and reaches for the button on my jeans — the apron long gone. She unzips me and pulls the denim completely off and my flimsy panties stick to them, leaving me naked from the waist down. She places her hands on my knees and her lips just above the right one. Her unruly hair is soft inside my thighs and she alternates, kissing my left then right leg, making her way up. Her fingers move to the fold of skin at the center, which she parts before placing the tip of her tongue inside. I groan as she slips one digit inside, pulls it out and rubs the slickness across my clitoris, back and forth, up and down, in and out. She leans in and her face is in my pussy, and her tongue is inside me. It feels like she is making out with, French kissing, my cunt, I think. And I never want her to stop. Before the waves can consume me, she comes up for air.

She turns —smiling face damp— to her husband and holds out her hand.

I look up as he hands her the vibrator, and I see that he is down to his boxers. The bulge underneath the thin fabric is humongous. When he sees my gaping eyes staring at it, it grows.

She giggles and says, I know, can you believe how big he is? Do you want it in you? And I say that I do, but first I want to know what you are going to do with that. She lifts her skirt and straddles me before placing the head of the vibrator between us. She grinds against me and the thing buzzes between our primed pussy. My moans turn to a holler. I am impervious to the power of this friction and an orgasm overtakes my entire being as I spasm down to my toes, which shoot straight out before I wrap my legs tightly around her tiny waist, pulling her even closer, and as she presses into me, we both begin to shudder powerfully. She tosses her head backward, her hair brushing my calves and feet still clasped around her, and she lets out a scream. I feel a waterfall between our tangled bodies. Now pressed into each other, the vibrator has slipped from between, landing with a thunk on the floor.

Mr. Porter leans in and picks it up, turns it off and sets it onto the counter. His wife, still clinging to me, shaking in my lap, turns to kiss him deeply — she rubs then licks and momentarily swallows his gigantic cock whole, then she says, fuck this little girl good now, Baby. He looks and me and says, "Yes, dear."

I am quaking with anticipation and delicious fear. Peripherally I see Ms. Porter move to the counter, sit on its edge, legs spread, and jam the vibrator between her legs, squirting across the room and squealing with pleasure. I look from her to him, and he approaches and asks if I am OK, taking me by the waist with an unexpected gentleness. He pushes my T-shirt up and buries his face in my tits. Oh yes, I say, gripping his thick hair as he lifts me slightly and slowly slides his enormous erection into my dripping cunt.

"Oh fuuuuuuccckkkk," he cries. "You are so tight and beautiful."

He fits me in a way that threatens to rip me in two yet touches every nerve inside, penetrating each pleasure-producing pore. I am on fire and my ecstasy is shot through with sorrow — sorry that every experience heretofore will live in the shadow of this perfect, searing bliss. Tears streak my temples as an eruption, beginning in the depths of my very soul, works its way from my calf muscles to my fingers and my belly, intensity growing with each strong thrust, possessing me, eliciting a whimper that turns into a holler and returns to a whisper of "dear god."

"I cannot last any longer," Mr. Porter mumbles biting down on my shirt, which is still wrapped around my neck, and I tell him to come all over me. As soon as I say it he jerks upward and I grab his shaft and squeeze and pull as the milky white sprays my stomach and breasts. It drips from my chin and lower lip. He looks down at me and says he wants more of me, wants me to stay forever. I look up and him and lick my lip and wipe my chin.

Ms. Porter moved to the tub, I am not sure when, and a shallow pool of her liquid washes away when we turn on the shower, cleaning ourselves and giggling in the hedonistic glow.

I walk back to the bar alone, refusing to rouse the couple from their blissful comatose state.

Jake is locking up and hurries over to me as I start up my car. "Well," he wonders. I tell him that everything he can conjure up in that dirty mind of his actually happened. My eyes are crotch level and I see movement in his pants. I look up at his piercing gaze and tell him that when his wife expresses interest in a threesome, I am here for them.

He smiles and kisses my cheek, and we go our separate ways for the night.