ONE DAY

** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only **
image by Chistopher Shaw

I work on the eighteenth floor of a skyscraper in Los Angeles. I work because I have to have money and not because I enjoy what I do.

My treatment of daily routine is successful; it’s really just a matter of focus. I function in reality because I must, but my real energy is spent toward fantasy and daydreams.

This could be any activity someone enjoys outside the realm of real-life distraction. It’s a matter of preference… one might enjoy nature; I enjoy mine in the flesh.

Yes, sex: anything that’s a reminder of touch. The smallest brushing in passing can evoke shivers through my sex depending on the sensation. If it’s rough it might bring to mind a man, a man who demands control. If it’s gentle and feathery, if it’s deliberate, it hypnotizes me: my body and my head. It is the softest power over me…

The reminders: a scent, an attractive feature, music. Anything that sparks my imagination entices my mind to float away… everything is real.

I’m sexy in an intellectual, professional way, rather than the secret slutty way I am behind closed doors (and sometimes at certain parties). I wear smart, sophisticated skirt-suits and high heels. My hair is long and often in the way while at work, so I usually wear it in a twist or bun. I wear contacts, but in the office I prefer my glasses because I feel it adds more to the separation of dimensions I choose to divide my life.

In the morning I shower, drink my cup of coffee and dress while watching the news. I suppose I’m a typical workingwoman.

Every morning I arrive at eight, smile at the security guard and wait with a cluster of others at the elevators of the lowest-level parking garage for the next trip up.

The doors slide open, empty, and five or six of us step in. The man from the law firm on the tenth floor stands beside me, smelling of an expensive masculine perfume. Not cologne, which is stronger. Closing my eyes, I invite the scent to whisper its soft seduction…

The elevator stops on the main floor. A few people exit and many others step in. My eyes flutter during the exchange.

The lawyer moves closer to me, his body pressing against mine in the cramped quarters. My eyes close again. I feel the heat of his form near to mine.

I sense he turns his head to me. He leans close to my hair, which I haven’t yet put up. I think he kisses it… no, he nuzzles it. His lips brush my forehead, so light… In one swift movement (though slow in my head), his mouth moves down my cheek and barely across my ear. His breath is warm; I hear it shudder, like a stressed sigh.

I make no movement. He pulls away, just his face: his arm remains against mine, his fingers stroking my thumb in a tender, suggestive way. Electricity courses up my arm.

He takes my smaller hand in his and rubs it in a delicate massage, a suggestive massage…

He stops. The elevator pauses. Opens. Passengers leave, allowing a little more room. The doors close; space falls between us. I still smell him. The elevator begins rising again.

Opening my eyes, I look up at the panel of red digits. The seventh floor. I turn to the lawyer.

But it isn’t the lawyer, who stands in the far corner of the car. The person beside me is a man I’ve never seen before. He isn’t as tall as I had felt when my eyes were closed just a moment ago.

Feeling my gaze, he turns to me. His smile is one of habit, the kind you muster for those passing in the hall that you think you’re supposed to know or be nice to because you work in the same building.

After returning the courtesy I look to the floor. The elevator stops on the tenth floor and the lawyer walks off with several others. He doesn’t catch my eye and disappears to dark hardwood floors and high ceilings.

Did he move so far so fast when there had been movement? Had he ever even been standing with me at all? Only as we waited in the garage, but not once inside? Was the flirtation really from the stranger still standing beside me who deserves an Oscar if so? Or was it just in my head…?

I reach the eighteenth floor. The pretty, young receptionist greets me with a habitual smile. Offering a more practiced one, I continue down the hall. I hear how my hips swing by the rhythm of my heels clicking on the marble floor.

The company I work for is the entire floor, which isn’t very large. The space is used as much for style and comfort as for conference tables and offices. Mine is in the farthest west corner.

I enjoy the perk of having my own space. Better even that there are no windows within except those that look to the sky above and the city below. The floor is laid with a massive Oriental rug; my shoes are otherwise slippery on the gray marble. My desk sits on the wall opposite the door so I can see who walks in, but so I can turn my head to watch the sunset in the evening.

I’m pretty neat; I like to be tidy and organized, which makes me feel more efficient. I don’t display framed photographs of loved ones, which I think is an invasion of privacy. The pictures of those who make life worth living are kept carefully in my head, untouched by reality. Why would I share my fantasy with the humdrum of this other world I must live in eight hours a day?

Often the mornings pass slow and torturous. I read over paperwork, write messages and instructions, and meet with boring people who think they have good ideas to share.

After a couple of hours I receive an email from my boyfriend: a kinky greeting card with the image of a sexy Spanish girl who wears nothing but black boots. He writes of graphic possibilities; his words stir me with a story of seducing her and what we might do with her. He leaves off with hunger and desperation to ravage me…

I walk down the corridor to use the restroom. Closing the pale mauve door behind me, I sit. I wear black lace thigh highs and no panties, which I find so sexy. My head runs tangents about the Spanish girl; she reminds me of Stacy, in bookkeeping. I imagine running my hands over her flat stomach and bronzes legs, kissing those pouty lips, tasting her honey and tugging on her black hair…

When I finish I unlock the door and push it outward. I’m startled to find Stacy blocking my exit. Her smile is provocative as she presses me back into the stall, falling in with me, locking it again behind her.

I think nothing; her soft full lips are firm against mine in a heartbeat. Her hands are voracious, slipping beneath the lapel of my jacket and moving roughly over the fabric between her and my breasts. Her knee presses between my legs, pushing my skirt up and against my naked sex.

Are my hands around her small waist? Am I clutching her round ass, pulling her closer to me?

Her mouth moves to my throat, her tongue hot and wet to my ear. She whispers, “I was afraid I’d lose my nerve.”

She breaks from me. I never open my eyes, woozy and drunk from such abandoned passion. In a hurry she’s gone, leaving me breathless and heavy against the cool panel.

Opening my eyes, I arrange my skirt and step out. Looking to either end of the long vanity, I find the bathroom is empty. I didn’t hear the door shut and can’t remember if my stall had been locked or not when I had walked out just now. After splashing cold water on my face, I return to my office.

Work to get done tapers off just before noon. I like to reach a good stopping point before I leave for lunch. This is when I either jot down a suggestive email to my boyfriend or read aloud a sensual paragraph to him from whatever I’m currently reading over the phone. On days he’s unavailable, I lock my office door and read to myself, envisioning that I am the center of the erotic tale. In any case, I leave for my break in peaked arousal.

Usually I meet with my love for lunch. Sometimes I find him standing outside, leaning against a light pole, smiling behind black sunglasses, his stillness making him more beautiful as hordes of people pass in their haste.

Today he isn’t there.

At the deli down the block I order ham and Swiss on white. Sitting at a table outside, I situate my book to read. I disappear: I am a French courtesan in the late nineteenth century, making love against the back wall of a crowded theater…

From behind, my love murmurs, “Did you think I wouldn’t come?” The scent of his cigarette whispers its way through my nose; I close my eyes.

I sense him sit beside me, his hand possessive on my thigh. It slides upward, beneath the hem of my skirt. He plays with the elastic lace of my stocking. Sipping my soda, my sex quivers. My mind continues to roll out the story, even as my eyes are shut to the words on the page.

Instinctively my legs relax, inviting him. I never bother to see if anyone might notice; everyone has disappeared because they don’t matter.

His fingers have discovered my wetness before even reaching my pussy. He leans near to me, whispering, “You’re such a slut.”

I squirm. Heat flushes my face.

He is prefect in his nonchalance. Beneath the protective fabric of my skirt his finger teases my clit. “You always want sex.”

Correcting him without opening my eyes, I murmur, “I always want touch.”

I imagine the smile at the corners of his mouth as he brings the cigarette again to his lips.

“Should I fuck you? Here? Would you like everyone to watch?” his voice is smooth, intense. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

He has slipped inside me, which I barely feel because I’m dripping and his fingers seems nothing. Ohhh… but his thumb against my clit provokes me.

I nibble on the end of the straw in my drink.

His finger has become a hook, exploring the inner wall of my sex, almost pulling me toward him. I bite my lip.

“Shall I bring you off here, while everyone watches, unknowing? Shall I tell you what I plan to do with you later?”

Silent, I wait. I don’t see his expression behind my closed eyes; I only hear the voice of one who enslaves me. He says, “No – I think I’ll wait.”

At one in the afternoon I step from the elevator and click my heels toward the reception desk to retrieve any messages. She smiles up at me with glossy pink lips, her blond hair spilling over her shoulder. She says, “Your boyfriend says he’s sorry he missed lunch with you today.”

On the piece of paper she hands me is scribbled, ‘I’ll make it up to you tonight.’

I stare at the bubbly, high-schoolish handwriting before lifting my head to the wide blue eyes that watch me with interest. She raises a playful eyebrow.

Mumbling a thank you, I click clack down the hall and shut myself behind the oak door, wondering if I’ve gone mad.

Fearing a potential headache, I lie down on the black leather sofa and close my eyes.

The presence of another stirs me: lips against my ear, whispering to wake. My lashes flutter, the light confuses me for a moment. My boyfriend leans over me, smiling and beautiful. “Hello, Sleeping Beauty… I brought you lunch.”

Lifting my head, I stare at him, perplexed. My head has been cradled in the nook of my arms while sitting at my desk, not lying down on the sofa. My eyes shift to the clock on the wall. It isn’t even noon. How long had I slept and when had I closed my eyes? Before I went to the bathroom (which would have been in my head), or after (which would have been real)?

My gaze travels to my computer, where the screensaver parades an occasional fish across the monitor. I interrupt the underwater bubbling noises by moving the mouse: the Spanish woman stares back at me provocatively.

I’ve been asleep for a couple of hours; I never went to the restroom or to lunch. I shake aside the impending paranoia that lurks in the back of my mind. How real everything always seems…

Amid half-empty cartons of Chinese I explain my confusing imagination to my boyfriend. My lover says little, listens rapt, and the partial smile on his lips indicates he doesn’t interpret my wandering head as much of a problem. He suggests I abstain from sexual reminders for a period of time to see if my condition improves. I think refraining from fulfilling my frequent desires will only antagonize the issue.

Cleaning away the remaining food, he returns the empty containers back to the brown paper bag they were brought in. Sitting back on the sofa, I remove my heels. My eyeglasses rest on the corner of my desk. I want to take my hair down, but it seems too much a hassle.

My lover kneels before me. His face is soft, inquisitive, and a little mischievous. He peers into me with this expression while rubbing my sleeved feet. Leaning nearer, his breath is hot against my cheek when he whispers how he loves my imagination, how he loves my sensitivity. His hands move up my legs, along my inner thighs, reaching the crevice where I am already humid and waiting.

Every caress is needles and feathers. My eyes become heavy. His mouth moves across my cheek, my closed eyelids, before settling in an intense kiss to my lips. Against the kiss he murmurs that he loves me how I am; his hands move beneath my ass to pull me forward a little. He drapes necklace kisses along my throat, my collarbone, trying to get past the buttons of my blouse.

When he pushes my skirt to my waist, revealing my nakedness, I let myself relax against the cool leather. Again he pulls me forward, firmly cupping my backside as his head dips down between my thighs. The first flick of his tongue racks my body with electricity. The nerves quiver through my legs, into my toes.

His thumbs rest on either side of my sex, teasing me for want of penetration. His tongue is like a serpent, flicking slow and exploratory. When he finally presses the width of it to my clit, covering it firmly, sparks shoot up my spine. His thumbs inch closer to enter me.

Even such small administrations make my breath shudder. The idea of someone casually knocking and entering excites me. His head between my legs enflames me; through lowered lashes I can’t help but watch.

He begins sucking my bud, his tongue still quick to lick under the cover of his mouth. He is murmuring, making small noises that suggest what he tastes is delicious. The tips of his thumbs continue taunting me.

The room seems unbearably hot. When I close my eyes the patterns and colors are blossoms of fire and orchids. There is detachment: I am in my own haven of liquid bliss, and reality seems the dream.

My bent knees fall from each other. One of his hands slides around my waist, pulling me closer to his voracious mouth. The fingers of the other finally delve inside; the adrenaline in my blood is the coming orgasm coursing through my veins.

He knows just how I like it: his mouth never leaves the flower of my sex, his tongue never stills. His two fingers press against the velvet walls within, coaxing my climax.

Amazing I can breathe at all, so excited am I that I almost forget to. My heart thunders in my chest. The sight of my skirt pushed so haphazardly to my waist, exposing the whiteness of my fleshy thighs above black lace is immensely arousing. I feel so wanton, so lusty.
The image of our provocative entanglement and the wet heat against my sex is too much: I cum. The pressure builds in my loins before erupting through my body in shards of silver glass…

My lover continues lapping, content to kneel at my feet like a slave. There is a moment of disorientation, but it passes and I know this is real. My skin is soft and electrified; I could erupt again at the slightest caress.

He lifts his beautiful face to gaze on me. Pulling him nearer, I lean forward, a little roughly. I enjoy his kisses after I’ve cum in his mouth; I like the taste of women.
After he’s gone, I resume my daily activity. I indulge in a cup of coffee, as I am drowsy from sleeping earlier in the day. I wonder if I might be coming down with a cold; it’s unnatural for me to take such an extended nap so early in the day.

Near three in the afternoon I follow other coworkers down the hall to the conference room. Twenty or so situate themselves around the long square table. I sit far from the front, nearer the projection screen on the wall, away from the host.

I’m scribbling notes on my yellow pad of paper when Scott smiles down on me, asking if he may sit beside me. I return the smile.

He is attractive, more so because he is several years younger and new to the company. The small draft of air created when he removes his suit jacket and drapes it over the back of the chair sings across my skin in a whisper. When he sits, it is with care and precision rather than careless hurry.

I steal a sideways glance. With nimble fingers he unbuttons the cuff of his shirt. I like that he intends to make himself comfortable, even if only for a short time. I note that his nails are clean and trimmed. He rolls his sleeves up and settles into the high-back chair, resting his forearms on the polished mahogany table. The hair on his arm isn’t too dark and looks soft like downy.

Startling me, he says, “You have beautiful hands.”

I look at him in dumb silence. I wonder if he notices what I imagine as fear on my face? It seems slow motion when he reaches for my hand.

Please don’t touch, don’t touch…

With supreme gentleness he loosens my hand from its grip around the pen, looking at it with great intent, as though inspecting it.

“You have delicate, long fingers,” he pauses, tracing the line of one with his own. His voice sounds different than it had when he asked to sit beside me: heavier, sultrier. Is that deliberate?

His fingers around mine feel like feathers. Familiar needles creep up my arm.

He redirects his gaze to mine. Applying pressure, he continues, “Like the fingers of an artist.” There is a sparkle in his eyes.

The lights are turned out and the screen at the front of the room begins its display of images.

He casually drops my hand.

In a fleeting moment of disorientation, I realize it has fallen to his lap. The few seconds it takes me to realize this seem minutes. I am startled from my momentary reverie when my forgotten hand brushes the bulge in his pants. I am quick to pull it away, but in a flash his hand is clutched around mine. Leaning toward me, he whispers: “Relax.”

The blue light of the screen reflects in his handsome face. A devilish grin plays on his lips.

Leaving my hand where it rests in his lap, I turn my head to the screen to observe the graphs and charts I don’t care much about. I feel slight paralysis and wonder if I’m in my head or not.

Beneath the cover of the table eave his finger strokes mine; the electricity that travels through my body is immediate. Fingertips tickle my wrist and lower forearm; the electricity burns hotter and faster through my blood. Gooseflesh rises on my skin.

The tickling becomes a soft massage, encouraging me.
My eyes flash over the proposed building design depicted on the screen, but my body is elsewhere.

My hand is resting in his lap again. When did his caresses cease? Or did he ever continue his attentions at all? Has my hand just been lying there limp all this time?

No… I feel the stirring in his pants. The bulge seems alive. I want to touch it. The images on the screen blur. His hand covers mine, pressing it between his legs. Aware of the wetness between my own, I squirm in my
seat.

Trepidation gives way to desire. What does it matter if it isn’t real, so long as it seems it is? I enjoy it the same, yes? The possibility, fantasy or not, provides me with pleasure. Is it wrong to indulge then?

I apply my own pressure; his hand over mine loosens. It seems he relaxes against the back of his dark leather chair. It is warm between his legs.

We sit tight to the table, though our heads are turned toward the screen, hoping no one notices our play. His sex is stiff through the constraining fabric of his pressed pants. It feels thick and hard, causing my head to weave decadent designs of possibility.

I want satisfaction. Closing my eyes, I imagine… that we are alone and he lifts me onto the table, leans over me and kisses me savagely while pushing my skirt to my waist. How happy he would be that I wear no panties, how easy to just have his way with me…

My desire is interrupted by fear and I pull my hand away abruptly, afraid to be unfaithful to my love. I’m afraid my confusion between what is real and what isn’t will have me betray our devotion to each other.

There is heat in my face. I chance to glance at him and find his smile mischievous. Guilt stirs me. In his eyes I think that he knows my confusion, and I wonder if perhaps he will manipulate me with his knowing. I redirect my focus to the topic of the meeting.

When the lights are turned back on, they near blind me. I must blink several times in an effort to adjust. My face feels on fire; Scott has stood and is already turning from me. The questioning between reality and fantasy keeps me from meeting any gaze he might flash my way. What if I had only imagined it?

My heart is racing. I click-clack down the corridor to my office and shut the door behind me. Leaving my shoes beside the sofa, I move to the ceiling-to-floor window.
The sun is high and bright and the other downtown buildings reflect the light like shards of shattered glass and mirror. I press my forehead to the cool pane and practice slow breathing.

Near 5pm finds me lying on the sofa, flat on my back, sleeved legs elevated on the armrest. My eyeglasses sit on my desk. I’ve made appointments, arranged meetings, and smiled behind my mask to those I could care less about, pretending to hear what they say. It sometimes surprises me how well I can continue functioning when I feel so out of control inside.

The sounds from the satellite station that play from my computer are those of a nighttime tropical island: sexy, sultry beats and rhythmic drums. I am transported there, to a hot night on warm sand amidst sweltering dancing bodies…

There is a soft knock on the door and the young receptionist peeks in, looking down on me. “Are you feeling all right?” she asks.

I smile and nod, but say nothing, continuing the swing of my hips in my head.

“May I come in?”

She doesn’t open the door any wider and slides through the small space as though being secretive, shutting it behind her. She sits at the end of the couch, lifting my feet from the armrest and placing them gently in her lap. “You seem stressed,” she observes without looking at me. Her hands caress my calves. Part of me wonders if this is how females comfort each other (we are naturally affectionate), or if maybe she’s trying to seduce me. I’m tired of trying to tell, so I’m silent and just shrug.

She says nothing. When she begins rubbing my feet in a casual massage, I close my eyes.

The strain of the day, though hardly work-related, fades from my flesh. I don’t stop to question the situation because it simply feels too good. In the back of my mind I note that she has never been so physical with me, though she has occasionally conveyed tones of concern and has sometimes stopped to visit before leaving. My consciousness doesn’t register this, or at least, refuses to. Instead living is nothing but the music in the air and her attentions.

Her fingers on the soles of my feet are divine, deliberate, and evoke my sinking into the black leather. I think I offer a lazy sort of smile (are my hips swinging as they can while lying here, or is that just inside myself?).

How long does she continue? Time seems to have stilled. I hardly notice (or care) when the palm of her right hand slides up my leg while her other hand continues its meditative rubbing.

I let her.

I don’t feel her weight shift at all. It doesn’t feel that she moves, though she must lean forward the higher up my leg she travels. Nor does she hesitate when she reaches the lace that hugs my thigh or when she continues upwards to the heat between my thighs. Her other hand has moved from my foot to my ankle and calf.

I am lost, detached. Her hand on my thigh is silk, moving against me like satin. The pressure she applies to my opposite leg reminds me of a heartbeat: a relaxed, lulled pulse. The drums in my ears combine, causing tidal waves of sensation through the length of my body. My nipples feel tickled, then hot and stinging… am I holding my breath?

She is definitely leaning over me now: her long fine hair falls in the softest waterfall against the bare flesh at my neck exposed above my blouse as her hand has cupped my humid sex.

I want her to kiss me. Instead, she uses her hair as one might a feather, dressing it along my throat and face, and back again. When she pauses, her lips (those glossy pink lips) are near to my ear, so near I feel their heat.

But she does not press them to me.

I’m afraid to open my eyes for fear I will wake from the most beautiful dream.

She lies over me, though keeping her weight lifted. One of those neatly manicured nails on one of those long dainty fingers probes its way within me.

I realize my hands are around her waist; I move them to the delicious curve of her backside. She is moving oh-so-gently to those island drums…

I pull her closer to feel better how she moves. O, she moves as I am within! Her fingers are deep inside me, twirling and exploring and making me so hungry for more.

I am trapped between ravaging her and possibly disrupting the fantasy. I want to eat her alive, bury my face in the sweet scent of her sex and paint her body with my tongue… but what if it isn’t real?

I feel the small hot breeze against my ear when she murmurs, “You and your boyfriend should call me.”

There is a pause that seems an eon, before I realize that her hand has retreated from between my legs. The energy of her shadow moves from me as she stands. In the next instant a hand is against my breast and her moist lips are pressed to mine.

Then she is gone.

My eyes flutter open. I feel a little as though I’m floating. My body is nervous, shaking in the most delicate way. The clock on the wall reads exactly five.

Sitting up, I shake the sexual starlight from my hair. As I do, a folded piece of paper falls from my chest to my hiked-up skirt. Scribbled in that sweet high-schoolish handwriting is a phone number. Hers? Or did she just stop in, ask how I was, and leave a message with me?
I think I still smell her light fragrance wafting in the air around me. The drums continue their low, mesmerizing throbbing.

Bending my knees, I pull them closer to my body that feels a little lonely now that the workday is done. The ball of fire in the sky to the west heats my face as it begins its descent into the sea.

Smiling a little, I reflect on my day. What good is reality if I can’t play?

As I slip on my shoes and shut down the computer, I weigh the consequences of so easily altering my perceptions by imagination. And again (as I frequently have this conversation with myself), I arrive at the conclusion that regardless what is real and what isn’t is of no matter, so long as I hurt no one. Including myself.
And on the contrary, I’ve had a very good day.