Late Night with Elaine
Joe Brewster
Copyright 2011 Joe Brewster/transgressivefiction
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Elaine and I barely had a nodding acquaintance when we first started working together.
When I say working together I don’t mean as a team. It’s just that when everyone else flew the coop we each stayed late, on our own, to tie up loose ends.
There were always loose ends. So she and I spent a lot of time alone together after regular working hours.
I blame demographics.
Elaine and I were the seasoned veterans of the office. We were dug in there; the so-called ‘Go-To Guys’. We felt an obligation to go the extra mile. Most of the office help were just kids or temps or both.
When the clock hit five they were gone. We couldn't blame them. We didn't think to blame them. We kept our noses to grindstone and did our stuff.
As time went by, Elaine and I automatically began doing little things to help each other out.
If one of us were making copies we'd asked the other if they needed some done. If one of us got a coffee we'd bring the other a cup, that’s the sort of thing I mean.
We fell into a routine. One day it suddenly dawned on us we were like an old married couple. It was as though we skipped all the fun parts like courtship and sex and went straight to dull rut of married life.
Except it wasn't dull.
Not really.
At some point we started hanging out together after we knocked out our work. Not going out or anything. Just kicking back and relaxing at the office after our work was done; shooting the breeze.
It was a pleasant way to pass the evening. It was nice having a companion to talk to. Neither of us had anyone waiting for us at home.
We felt a shared sense of purpose and enjoyed the quiet of the empty office after all the hustle and bustle was done; we liked each other's company.
One day I noticed something different about Elaine. Something sexy caught my eye. She was attractive to begin with, like a forty-something TV sitcom Mom from back in the 60’s, but she wasn't conventionally sexy in a sultry, provocative way. Not usually.
One day she suddenly acted like a trollop on the prowl: Eyes twinkling; primping; giving me suggestive looks.
That evening, when we were finally alone, I asked her what was up. She said it was my fetish that got me hot and bothered. She’d worn a new pair of stilettos. She said she knew they'd get me horny that's why she bought them.
I had to laugh. Where do women get off thinking they know everything that’s going on in a guy’s mind?
She always wore stiletto pumps. Sure they were sexy. Especially the way her thin white ankles, shimmering in nude stockings, tapered into the mirror-like shine of the black patent leather. It looked sensuous as hell---but in a refined, elegant way. What I would call classic.
Her latest pair was hardly new and different. Maybe a little higher heel. Maybe showing the slightest bit of toe cleavage. They made her feel more attractive. They made her think she had more sex appeal.
I responded to the image she projected: she got me aroused.
But this fetish thing was a joke. We were so comfortable together we would give each other neck rubs or I would brush her hair as we talked. Stuff like that. I mean she smoked and I didn't so it was hard for her to smoke and talk and brush her hair all at the same time.
Which brings us to how this whole fetish thing got started.
One night we were sitting around and she started rummaging through her desk looking for a light for her cigarette and she found a bottle of nail polish in the process.
So she lit up her cig and then she peeled off her pantyhose and started painting her toe-nails right while we're talking.
She was all scrunched up. The little bottle in one hand, the little brush in the other, painting away, and the cig in her mouth is flipping around, throwing ashes in all directions while she flapped her jaws talking and nearly lost her cigarette altogether at one point.
It was distracting to watch.
So I rolled over to her in my chair and, without a word, took the polish from her and finished the job.
She sat back and smoked while we gabbed and I polished her toe-nails.
When I finished she started drying them by wiggling her toes real fast and flapping her feet in the air.
I told her to hang on. Just sit back like the 'Queen of All She Surveys' and let me take care of it.
I got on my knees and blew on her toes till they were dry.
At that point I was just hamming it up. Having fun with it. She never let on that it was a big deal or anything. But apparently that's what made her think I had a fetish.
What a nut!
For one thing I always thought a foot fetish and a shoe fetish were two different things. So I'm like 'Which is it?' you know? She just laughed. Broads. I tell ya.
The thing of it is... this started getting around the office. Not just that I have a fetish, but that I'm a submissive. That she’s my Sex-Mistress and I'm her Sex-Bitch.
Part of that is my fault. In the evenings alone together she would playfully call me 'Bitch'. And I went along with it. It was fun--- as a gag. We never did anything. Painting her toe-nails was as far as it went.
I had nothing against Elaine and I becoming sexually involved other than the fact that we worked together. I didn’t want to ruin our great working relationship. We were pushing the envelope as it was.
That was the fun part.
Actually having sex would have killed the mystique. Just like on the old TV sitcoms.
Anyway... one day Elaine called in sick and I stayed late alone. Or so I thought.
Diana, one of our young temps, popped in on me. This office job was her first time in the big city. She was corn-fed and right off the farm.
She laid a story on me. She unburdened herself of the fact that she always harbored a fantasy of tying up some guy and having her way with him.
She confessed this to me like she knew I'd understand. Like she knows I'd enjoy it. Like she's sure I'll help her out because I’m such a sophisticated city-type fella and a sex-bitch and all.
This girl was too big to play with. She outweighed me by I-don't-know-how-much--- a lot.
I tried to bolt.
She tackled me.
She wrangled me around like it was a 4-H calf roping contest and I was the calf. She trussed me up pretty as you please. She was laughing her ass off. Proud of herself. Really getting into it.