Rachel From The Office
Rachel From The Office
Rachel had been working in the office for nearly three weeks. She was overly
conscientious in her duties, wanting to make an impression. She wasn't our first
choice or even our second. The others turned us down and now we were stuck with
Rachel. I watched her as she typed, the tip if her tongue occasionally appearing
between her lips.
She had decorated the area around her desk with a few
photographs; one of her nephew and niece smiling against the background of
Boston harbor and another of what I took to be her boyfriend. Each morning for
the past week she had brought in a small bunch of spring flowers that added a
splash of color to the drab blue walls of the office.
I was difficult to say exactly what annoyed me most about her. Her coal-black
hair was cut sharply into one of those modern styles that showed off her long
neck. Her clothing had a studied casualness about it. She was always on time,
always willing a stay a little later. It had struck me not long after she
arrived that she never wore the same pair of shoes to work. I was tempted to
start up a log of her shoes to discover when she would wear a repeat pair of
shoes, but the thought of undertaking such a task exhausted me. She was third on
our interview list because she was inexperienced and young. This caused her to
constantly flit about the office seeking advice from her peers who seemed
unusually willing to offer it. I recalled her CV; an upbringing in a middle
class suburb near Chicago, higher than expected SATs, a decent college, above
average grades, and effusive recommendations. She played volleyball for the
college team and spent a semester abroad building homes for the poor somewhere
in South America.
I suppose I knew what really annoyed me. It wasn't so much her bland perfections
as much as my own unremarkable and accumulating imperfections. Languishing in my
late 40's I was at least twenty years older than Rachel; probably about the same
age as her father. My hair was thinning at about the same rate as my stomach
seemed to be expanding. When I was married I longed for the freedom of the
single man, but now, five years after my divorce I was plain lonely. I hadn't
given up on dating exactly but dating seemed to be progressively giving up on
me. The fact of the matter was that Rachel looked straight through me. I was
nothing to her; neither young and good looking enough to be interesting or
important enough to be useful.
A few days ago I walked over to her desk.
"Hey," I said in my most breezy tone accompanied by my brightest smile. She
looked up from the report she was reading, her finger keeping her place on the
page. I noticed again the small scar just below her eye that became a dark red
when she laughed and flirted with the others in the office. Both her scar and
her green eyes remained dim.
"That your boyfriend?" I asked, immediately regretting the question. She looked
puzzled by this forced attempt at intimacy. I could read her thoughts perfectly;
who is this person to ask about my boyfriend? She was still only half turned
towards me and her finger remained in place on the page.
"Sorry," I said quickly, sparing her the effort of a reply to my stupid
question. "I just wanted to say hello and make sure everything is going well."
"Oh," she said. "Okay," and turned back to her report leaving me standing there
hovering. "Was there something else?" she asked. I admitted there wasn't and
retreated.
The only person at work who might count as a friend was June who was around my
age. We had an office fling years ago that ended badly but now we were old
enough to recognize our follies. She had witnessed my "conversation" with
Rachel.
"She's too young for you big boy," she said with a sympathetic smile.
"What do you mean?" I asked innocently.
"Rachel. I don't think she's into older men." This unasked for piece of advice
both cheered me and disappointed me. The idea that June thought I was prowling
around the office looking start up affairs assured me that at least someone
thought my manhood still something to be reckoned with. However the thought that
I was now, even in the eyes of June, an "older man" was a sharp and unwelcome
reminder of my fading powers of attraction. We were standing outside the men's
room, a place where June and I had several risky sexual encounters. Like me,
June had put on a few pounds since then and patched things up with her husband.
"I was just trying to be friendly," I said, maintaining the posture of
innocence.
"You should watch less porn; these girls are not for you unless you are buying
them. And then they are not cheap." I knew that June, the former adulteress and
swinger, was not judging me. Her enthusiasm for pornography rivaled my own when
we were lovers.
"A man can only hope," I said enjoying this moment of shared understanding. June
touched my arm to guide me back towards the office. "The photograph is of her
boyfriend and she's not your type."
Rachel and the man in the photograph were sitting together in a booth at the
steakhouse near the river. I saw them immediately I walked in. They were huddled
together, seemingly engaged in a hissing argument. I sat, unobserved, in the
next booth. Rachel appeared drunk, slurring her words while the boyfriend seemed
angry.
"Rachel," he hissed, "this is too fucking much. Too fucking much."
"Don't swear," Rachel slurred. "Anyway," she continued, "I said I'm sorry. Let
me say it again. I'm sorry, sorry, sorry."
"Shut up." This outburst caused several heads to turn. And they sat in silence
for several minutes.
"I want another drink," Rachel said eventually.
"How many times did you fuck him? Did you fuck him in our bed?"
"I don't think so," Rachel offered.
"What do you mean, you don't think so?"
"I think we did it in the kitchen and then … fuck, I don't know. What does it
matter?"
"It matters to me you filthy fucking bitch. You whore." This was said loudly
enough to draw the attention of everyone sitting nearby and at the bar. The
boyfriend stood up and stamped out of the building leaving Rachel behind.
I sat thrilled by my voyeurism. The waitress was forced to tap her pen on the
table to get my attention. I ordered a coffee, decaf, since my heart was racing
enough already. What should I do now? Should I risk the humiliation of an
approach? She would reject me of course, humiliated by my being witness to her
unseemly and very public argument. To give myself time I walked to the bathroom
passing Rachel's table, hoping I suppose, she would recognize me and call me
over. My hope was disappointed. She was staring miserably into her drink, her
fingers softly drumming on the table. Once I was in the bathroom I panicked.
What if she left while I stood here squeezing out the dribbles of an "older
man's" piss? I rushed back into the dining area only to see that another man,
more adventurous than me, was already standing over Rachel's table. I didn't
like the look of him; several years younger than me, dark tattoos scrawled along
his muscled arms, lank greasy hair. As I approached I heard Rachel telling him
to "go away, please".
"Is there a problem here?" I found myself asking.
"Who the fuck are you?" the tattoo man said, an aggressive sneer across his
face.
"Her father," I said. This seemed to flummox him. I was not competition, just a
relative. He backed away and returned to bar. I felt the exhilaration of victory
rush through me, only to encounter the realization that the tattoo man had no
trouble at all in seeing me as old enough to be Rachel's father.
I slipped into Rachel's booth. She was looking at me through dulled green eyes,
her mouth made slack by the alcohol. Suddenly she recognized me.
"Oh, you're that guy from the office; the one who brings his lunch every day."
"Yes," I admitted.
"That's really fucking funny," she offered. "Does the wife make your
sandwiches?" She asked with a glint of contempt in her eyes. "That's what he
wants," she continued not waiting for my reply, "a wife to make his sandwiches.
That's all men ever want. I hate men."
"We should get you home," I said.
"I only did it to fuck with his head. He made assumptions. God I feel sick."
Rachel vomited a psychedelic spray across the hood of a Lexus in the parking
garage. She stood, one hand pressed against a pillar, retching while I looked
away from her shame.
"Are you going to hurt me?" She asked once we were in the car driving towards
Inman Square.
"No."
"Good," she whispered and then fell asleep.
She stumbled into my apartment, hanging onto my arm. I led her to the spare
bedroom and she flopped down on the bed like a woman shot from behind.
"Is there anything I can get you?" I asked.
"Just some water please," she asked in a little girl voice. When I returned her
jeans and top were tossed on the back of the armchair. I handed her the glass
and she drank quickly.
"Thanks," she gasped.
I was sitting in the armchair across from the bed when she woke early the next
day. Her eyes snapped open and a soft groan escaped her throat.
"I need to pee," she announced and jumped out from beneath the duvet. Her long
legs strode across the room carrying her tight, stretched torso that was
punctuated by her tiny black panties and bra.
"There's coffee in the kitchen," I called after her as she went off in search of
a bathroom. I slipped my hand beneath the tossed duvet to feel the heat of her
body still radiating from the sheets. I pulled the pillow to my face to smell
the traces her breath.
Rachel appeared in the kitchen wrapped in a towel and swung herself onto a stool
next to the counter. I placed a steaming cup of coffee in her hand.
"What was the problem with your boyfriend?" I asked.
"I was a bad, bad girl," she replied with a grin.
"How bad?" I asked. "What did you do?"
"Oh, fucked some guy," she said. "He gets pissed off when I do that."
I laughed. "Most guys do. What happened?"
"I love him, I really do. It's just I can't always help myself. I get into
situations with guys." She paused, taking a noisy sip of coffee. "You know,
like, I meet a guy, we play and flirt and stuff. It's like a game, my move, his
move and then, shit, I'm in a situation."
"And you don't want to be in a situation?" I prompted.
"No. I mean yes." Her voice was trembling now and the sparkle of a tear flashed
in her eye. "It's like when I'm in a situation I want it, I need it. Oh, I need
it so badly. It's like I'm addicted. But afterwards, shit, I feel bad. And so
guilty. I want to be loved and Dan loves me, he truly does. He's so cool and
cute and caring. He's like awesome, totally awesome. But this kills him and now
he's going to leave me. I know it. I fuck up every relationship. I cheat on
everyone. I even cheat on the people I'm cheating with," she said with a tearful
laugh.
I filled her cup and allowed a comfortable silence to settle.
"You're sweet," she resumed.
"Thanks," I replied testily.
"No, I mean it. You're easy to talk to, you know. A good listener."
I suddenly became conscious of myself as she must see me now; a balding,
middle-aged guy in a scruffy button-down shirt and jeans, needing a shave. I
felt suddenly exhausted, tired of the struggle for dignity.
"Rachel, I didn't bring you home just to save you, I brought you home because I
think you've got great tits and I've been fantasizing about you ever since you
started work at the office. You don't see me, you never notice me but I notice
you. And now it turns out you're a slut. So maybe I want part of the action."
"But I don't want to be like that," she protested, climbing off the stool and
holding the towel in place.
"But you are Rachel. You're a slut and a tease. You think it's cool to trot
around my house in your panties? You think the bald, fat guy doesn't notice?"
"I didn't do that on purpose. I just didn't think that's all."
"Exactly, I'm tired of women like you who don't fucking think."
"Whatever," she said, her face now flushed with anger.
The slap across her cheek dumped her onto the kitchen floor, the towel flying
open. I stood over her breathing heavily.
"How sweet do you think I am now?"
"I'm not a slut," she sobbed. "And I'm sorry for teasing you."
I grabbed her hair and pulled her to her knees. "Suck my cock," I said.
"No!"
I pulled her face towards my groin and smiled down at her. "You're enjoying this
aren't you?"
"No I am not," she countered. The small scar below her eye throbbed. Her green
eyes flashed.
"Well, your tits are enjoying it. Perky little nipples. I bet your cunt is
juiced up too."
She glared up at me, tears dribbling down her cheeks. "So what? You jerk off
over girls at the office? Pathetic. I bet you have your sad, little, pathetic
porno collection somewhere and you play with yourself because you can't get
anyone to screw you."
I pulled her hair tighter.
"Ow!"
"Want to see my porn collection?"
"No, why would I?"
I released her hair and walked back to the counter still breathing heavily. "Do
you want more coffee?" I asked. She said "Yes" and returned to her stool leaving
the towel on the floor.
"So what did you fantasize?"
"About you?" I asked, turning from the cupboard where I was reaching for more
coffee beans.
"Yes, me".
"The usual. But that was before I knew you were a slut. I imagined you would be
sweet and perhaps and little shy."
"How, like, dirty does it get, this fantasy of yours?"
I looked at Rachel, her rich black hair awry, sitting there, her breasts punched
into mounds by her push-up bra, her eyes red from her tears. She looked like a
peculiar cross between a small, frightened girl and a bordello whore.
"I know I cum over your face at one point. And I bust your cute little ass."
"Is that all?"
"No, I fuck your mouth and then take photographs of you. Back at the office we
have sex in the men's room."
"So imaginative," she said, a cloud of boredom crossing her face.
The sound of her cell rang out from the bedroom. Rachel turned and loped out of
the kitchen, her stretched, youthful skin rippling above her lanky muscles. I
followed and found her sitting on the bed, legs crossed, her head bending into
the silver instrument. I resumed my seat and watched and listened.
"I know, me too. I'm so sorry. Really I am baby. I love you too."
Her head nodded in rhythm to her boyfriend's statements.
"I love you too. It's just like something got into me and shit happened. I
didn't mean it, I seriously, totally, didn't mean it. I promise Dan, I totally
promise you it won't happen ever again."
Again the nodding resumed, this time a splash of a tear fell on her exposed
thigh.
"I know. I just got confused between the fantasy and reality. You know me. I'm
so stupid, like totally dumb sometimes."
She dragged the back of her hand across her face wiping away her tears and
sniffed loudly.
"At home, still in bed. I've got a fucking awesome hangover. No, sweetie, come
round later, I want to sleep still. I'm like wrecked. Oh, just my bra and
panties. You know, the black silky ones. And you?"
I shifted in the chair, leaning forward. Rachel leaned back, still not catching
my eye, her hand fell between her legs.
"Now? OK. Imagine there's someone watching me do myself while you're talking
fuck to me on the phone … Mmmmm, yeah. Like, maybe that old guy at the office;
the fat bald one. No, I would never fuck him baby, but just imagine giving him a
cheap thrill. Yeah, I'm touching myself. OK."
She dropped the phone and unhooked her bra, shrugged her shoulders and freed her
youthful tits. Her pointed nipples were a dark, rich pink. Still she didn't look
at me.
"I think he likes my tits baby. Like, he hasn't had any fresh pussy for ever. He
just jerks off to porno. Should I take my panties off for him babe? No never,
ever. It's just fantasy. It gets me so fucking hot imaging dirty stuff. You like
it too. I wish I could kiss you."
She hooked her thumbs into her panties, knelt and slipped them down to her knees
while holding the phone in the crook of her neck. Then she pushed the flashing
black fabric down to her ankles and slipped her feet out of them. Her pussy was
neatly trimmed, a dark triangle of hair crowning her swollen cunt lips. She lay
back, slipped down the bed, and spread herself wide. Her fingers greedily dived
between her moist flesh and Rachel began masturbating.
Her voice trembled now as she urged her boyfriend on. "Talk fuck to me baby.
Yes, yes, I'm a whore and dirty fuck slut. I need cock. Yes he's still watching.
He knows what kind of a whore I am."
My cock was hard, out of my jeans and in my hand. Rachel's eyes were now fixed
on it. Her fingers scooped out her cunt juice to lubricate her clit as she
furiously massaged her pussy. I stood up and moved close to the bed, my cock
just an inch from her face. My own masturbating rhythm now synchronized with
hers.
I looked down at her firm, veined breasts, now bubbling with beads of sweat. Her
stomach muscles taut, her pussy slathered with juice, red and swollen with her
indiscriminate desire. I could feel her hot breath pumping against the head of
my cock while she groaned into the phone. My sudden orgasm took me by surprise.
A stream of angry cum burst across Rachel's face, clinging to her eyelids and
nose and dripping from her cheek onto the phone. She let out a yelp of shock and
then her hips bucked into her own powerful orgasm. I collapsed onto the bed next
to her while she talked to her boyfriend until he too came. A few minutes later
she was lying, her head resting on my shoulder, asleep, her innocent childlike
face still spotted with cum.
I woke up to her tongue sliding along the length of my hardening cock. She
smiled up at me. "You snore," she said playfully. She flicked open the buttons
of my shirt. "And you're fat and you have grey hairs in your pubes." She
continued pumping my cock with her hand and sucking noisily until I came again,
wrenched dry by sweet Rachel's mouth.
Afterwards I watched while she gathered her clothes, saying nothing just
enjoying the gymnastics of a young woman dressing in a hurry.
"Dan will be around soon. I have to go."
"Will you come back?"
"Maybe. Not today. But soon."
"I won't tell anyone. It'll be our secret."
"You won't fall in love with me?"
"I promise I won't."
After the front door banged shut I spent the dark winter afternoon in her bed
smothering myself in her smell, replaying images over in my mind, and falling
horribly, pathetically, middle-agedly in love with Rachel from the office.