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Author’s note: This story is about a woman’s growing awareness of her bi-sexuality. There is a sexual overtone to the story, which starts slowly and grows to culminate in an erotic scene between two mature women. However, it is not a ‘poke and suck story’, sorry. I have struggled long and hard to make this story credible. If it interests you, and you would like to read further chapters please encourage me to put my thoughts in words by dropping me a note.

A special thanks to KillerMuffin who worked long and hard editing my script. It was her Herculean efforts that made it as readable as it is in its current state. I accept responsibility for all the remaining spelling mistakes and poor grammar. I simply can’t read it one more time. 🙂

* * * * *

Idly, I reach across the desk and flick my index finger against the quartz desk clock and penholder. In spite of this stimulus, it does not increase its tempo, but rather continues its slow, methodical beat on this dreary, dismal Friday afternoon. 3:01:09 P.M.…3:01:10 P.M.…3:01:11 P.M.

As the time drags on like cold motor oil flowing uphill backward on a frigid New Hampshire winter day, I find it impossible to concentrate. My mind is in overdrive, but not on work. Across the little cubicle, through a window high in the wall, I can get a partial glimpse of the outdoors, but only if I lean in the desk chair at just the right angle. A cold wind is blowing from the east, off the Gulf of Maine and across Portsmouth Harbor; driving sheets of rain to beat incessantly against the office windows. A tiny leak is evident in the corner where someone failed to close it after yesterday’s brief taste of the spring yet to come. As I watch, the water slowly run down the gyproc wall in the partial basement office, and all I can think is, “Fuck it, fuck them, fuck it all.”

I look at the clock again. 3:02:01 P.M.… 3:02:02 P.M. Again, I flick at it with the same results. Freedom beckons from outside the rain-streaked window, but freedom to do what, and freedom from what?

The wind is incessant. The rain bounces off the pavement in waves, which seem to flow, much like an ocean swell, across the parking lot. The litter and debris of a long, hard winter is strangely absent, too waterlogged to move in the minor whirlwind. The scraggy, barren land of this rocky, New England State is only beginning to feel the warm breath of spring. The trees are barren, even of their early spring buds. The grass is brown and dead, with only a few bare blades of green showing on the most sheltered parts of the south side of the building. Even the crocus and the tulips, planted late in the fall, have not stuck their noses above the surface into the dismal, cold air.

Somehow the weather and the season reflect my mood. Turbulent unsettled, stormy but with a promise, a real promise, of a rebirth to come, a metamorphous. The ugly caterpillar of a New England winter will change into a glorious spring and summer followed by an autumn that can never be done justice to by any writer or painter. The inevitability of the re-birth is pre-ordained. It is indelibly coded into the genes of the lifeblood of the planet Earth.

Deep in me, in the very center of my being, I feel myself going through such a re-birth. My inner feelings, my emotions, are in turmoil, as never before. Long surpressed, they are rebelling, demanding to be freed from their chains, to be allowed to take command of my life. They are welling up, organizing their forces, preparing to charge the barricades of my conventional values, the facade I put forward for my family, relatives, and friends. Long surpressed, they have grown in strength, fueled by my unhappiness, my dissatisfaction with my state in life. Like the inevitable spring they are on the march. This time I wonder, I truly wonder, if I have the power to surpress them, to beat them back into submission one more time or am I so weakened, that this time they are finally going to overcome me, to take control of my life. What is even more startling, disconcerting, frightening is that I cannot define what these emotions, yearnings, cravings are. Unlike the spring, I do not know exactly what might blossom forth from the recesses of my mind, if I lose the battle. Maybe if I did, it would strengthen my morale resolve, maybe if I did it would be like a 5th columnist further eating away at my resolve, my will to resist?

The placid, benign look on my face masks the inner turmoil raging. A soft smile hints at the corner of my mouth, almost a Mona Lisa smile, but not quite. How singularly appropriate. Just the other night I met a new friend on the Internet and had quipped that I was, ‘A 21st Century Renaissance woman.’ He had understood exactly what I was saying; claiming that he was a classically educated gentleman who belonged in the 19th century but was trapped in the 21st Century. How singularly appropriate, that we met at this time in my life is the thought that keeps running through ümraniye escort my mind. My thoughts dwell, obsess on the possibility that he, somehow, can help focus on what I feel, what I believe and what I want and need in this new emerging stage in my life. A Renaissance woman, I roll the expression over in my mind. Somehow in the 21st. Century it seems so appropriate, a feminist foil to the standard chauvinistic expression of a Renaissance Man. The more I turn it over in my mind, the more I realize the validity of the expression in describing my current mental agitation. In retrospect what happened several hundred years ago is clear. What happens when the seasons change is clear, it is preordained by nature? What is not clear is what will happen to me if I succumb to my own renaissance? What will I change into? What will I change from? What will be the price if these forces boiling within me successfully storm the ramparts and drastically alter the course of my life? Will they bring happiness or sorrow, fulfillment and contentment or emptiness and sadness? Joy to my family or a profound sense of loss?

What does the future hold? Should I resist or should I give in? If only I had an inkling of the core question. What is it I need, I want, I am striving for? What are the forces, churning in me, striving to do with my life? Where are they proposing to take me? Will it be a new and glorious level of being, a veritable paradise on earth, or my own private living hell? Is it worth the chance? Is my life so bad now? Questions, questions, questions and no answers. They eat at me but the answers like autumn smoke in the air evade my grasp.

The reflections take a different but related course. I flick the clock again. 3:09:45 P.M.…3:09:46 P.M.…Agonizingly, the seconds tick away and the ebb and flow of the office tide sways around me as if I was not physically present. My co-workers ignore me as if they sense my distraction and the need for several minutes of privacy. What is it about my life, my state of being, that is so unsatisfying, I ask myself rhetorically? Why am I so unhappy so… so unsatisfied, so unfulfilled? Is this what I want? Does this represent the limits of my professional aspirations?

Deep, deep down I know that this is part of the problem. Raised in a strong, nurturing middle class family, I was taught to strive to be self sufficient, self reliant, to strike out in the world and climb the mountain and the next and the next, always looking for more, for better, as a source of personal satisfaction, if nothing else. This agency, this office is not providing the challenge I need. Nepotism has set in. Decisions are as much on the basis of family considerations as they are on business. Promotion is on the basis of family. Ruefully, I smile to myself. All the blowjobs in the world are not going to get that hen pecked ninny to challenge his wife. She controls the purse strings as well as access to her fat pussy. Intuitively, as much as by the product of logical thought processes, I conclude that there is no place here in the future for my drive, my creative talents, my inbred desire to achieve.

Professionally, I am at one of the way stations of life, a jumping off point, but to what? A better paying more challenging job with another agency, another franchise? My own agency, What? At best, every day I am learning the business. Each day I absorb, catalogue, synthesize the business wheat from the chaff and, in this office, there is a lot of chaff. Has the time come to accept the overture and strike out on my own? I am aggressive; the desire to achieve is bred in my genes. Yes, definitely, this is part of the problem, but just as intuitively I know it is only part of the problem.

Listlessly, my eyes wander the cubicle, unable to focus on anything meaningful, anything concrete and productive. The cold rain drums against the window in staccato bursts. I fidget and squirm in my chair, agitated, on edge. Again I flick the clock with my finger. 3:12:45 P.M.…3:12:46 P.M.…Obstinate, defying me, it refuses to move faster. A slow, tedious Friday afternoon with nothing to look forward to all weekend trapped indoors with Gerald and the kids. Yes, Gerald, ah Gerald, my mind focuses momentarily on him. Gerald, my highschool sweetheart, is he the problem? Is he part of the problem? Do I love him? Do I really, really love him?

The last question is the easiest. Yes, I love him; I love him with every fiber of my being. That is the easy question and the quick and simple honest answer. Any solution to the problem, if there is a problem, whatever it may be, must involve him and the children. Thank God, for Gerald and the kids, is all I can mentally utter as my mind churns away. What would I do without them? The answer is simple. I would have a mental collapse and be institutionalized. Sometimes it is not material things that are the problem. He comes from a good, affluent family much like me. He loves me and I know that. pendik escort He is loyal. He is a good breadwinner. We live well and have all of the material things to make us comfortable and secure.

Maybe therein lies part of the problem, all the material things? Are there other things that are important? What about the other things it is so hard for husbands and wives, who are intimate with each other, to talk about? What about the fact that in spite of my unquestioning love for him I have a harder and harder time reaching an orgasm as he labors over me like a rutting, mechanical bull. What about the innate sense that I have, like all women, that his physical passion, his interest in me as a sex mate, a private erotic playmate is waning. It is and I know it.

God, I think, it would be so much better if he wasn’t so damned conservative, if he would try things, but he won’t, he just doesn’t seem interested. True, he is conservative, Irish, Catholic and therefore to be expected that he is sexually uptight. It’s bred into him. How do you say to your husband, your soulmate, I am bored with the same old positions, the same old variations. Even the best head in the world gets boring after while. Come on, roll me over, get the hand cream and work it up my ass. How do you say, ‘come on, the kids are asleep, lets play with the enema bag, and then dear you may get lucky and get a little ‘sailor lovin.’ How would he react if I suggested I get dressed up like a high-class hooker and go to wait at a neighborhood bar for him to come pick me up for a quick hard fuck on the sly? How do you say, Gerald, it’s not about love, it’s about variety, spice and excitement in our sex lives. We both need it.

My finger flicks the clock again. 3:15:01 P.M.…3:15:02 P.M.…Will this endless afternoon ever get over, I wonder despairingly.

A head pops up over the partition in front of me snapping me out of my dream world. “Janie, I’m going on my break now, you got the fort, babe!”

My wandering mind turns to Stephanie, and not for the first time, since she came to work in this office a year ago. Young, pert, full of personality, but wise in the ways of the world far beyond her 22 years, she is smart, outgoing, and not one to forego an opportunity to take the initiative to show others what she can do and her willingness to do it. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, if I leave in the near future to start on my own, I will invite her to go with me. She will be an asset beyond money. The relationship I have built with her goes far beyond office matters. She treats me like her big sister, the one she never had, and confides in me her problems with her no account boyfriend who she has finally, thank God, had the courage and initiative to leave. She told me of the discord in her home, that finally caused her to leave at 17 and finally, as only girls can, of some of her sexual desires and fantasies. Therein lies a major portion of my mental turmoil. Deep, deep in the recesses of my mind almost sub-consciously I realize my friendship with her, my attraction to her is taking a whole new outlook which both surprises and frightens me at the same time. Just the thought of those tight little buns beneath her slacks, that tight little cunt, unstretched by having two children, her smooth taunt belly and pert tits, sends a shiver down my spine to end in my pussy. For the countless time to day I feel myself becoming moist, and dampening the black pantyhose that I put on fresh so many hours ago. I am becoming sexually aroused just at the thought of her, of slipping my tongue into her most private area, swirling, licking, probing as she clutches my hands in hers and locks her fingers in mine in a death grip. Furtively, I look around the central office area, deserted, quiet, abandoned. Everyone, except me has gone, on break. Once again, I survey the room, deserted. The only sound is laughter coming from the staff rest area. I am aroused. Just the thought of Stephanie in her tight little red and white stripped bikini, the odd dark hair peeking out from under the edge of the leg band is so tantalizing, so arousing, that I involuntarily tense my muscles in my leaking pussy. The pixyish grin, the coquettish pose all come flooding back in my memory as I begin to breathe more rapidly, the girl’s weekend at the cottage is forever burned on my mind.

One last look around the office. It is temporarily abandoned, deserted, silent. Slowly I swivel in the chair to the left; my back turned to the doorway and the general entrance to the office. I am semi protected from prying eyes. My lap is below the level of the desk. It is hidden from anyone sitting in front of me. I slip my hand under my long black skirt and slide it up the inside of my leg. The waistband of the pantyhose stretches and I wiggle my hand inside, splaying my fingers, and slide them back down through the course black hair of my bush. I gasp at the sensual feel. The touch is electric. Every muscle in my bostancı escort body tenses. My eyes glaze and my eyelids droop, seeing nothing around anymore. I slip my fingers out of my cunt and pulling my hand out from under my dress I bring my fingers to my nostrils, sniffing my juices, my scent, my arousal. Like a cat, a sleek, smooth coated feline, I lick and suck my fingers, tasting my salty juices.

The breath rasps in and out of my tortured lungs. Quickly, while I am still controlled by the rational side of my brain, I double-check the office to ensure I am still alone. The hand slips back inside my long skirt and back under the waistband of the pantyhose to gain access to my sopping cunt. The index finger flicks my clit, stimulating it, teasing it, and encouraging it to rise up out of its little, fleshy cave, to come out in the open light of day, to come out and play with me. Quickly, it rises to the challenge. My fingers dance and thrum on my stimulated clit. Deeper and deeper I slip into a sexual trance. As my fingers explore my pussy, I feel my climax rushing toward me, uncontrollable, inevitable, promising, no guaranteeing, total satisfaction, and total fulfillment.

“Janie, I’m…back, … sorry.”

Whirling around I whip my errant fingers out from my cunt, drop my skirt and look up all in a fraction of a second, only to see the top of Stephanie’s head bob back down under the level of the 5 foot divider. “Ah, Jesus, ah… fucking, Jesus H. Christ!” I silently scream to myself. Like a drowning woman, I desperately grasp for a straw of hope. I examine her line of sight. Is it possible she really didn’t see anything but my facial expression? The answer is immediately obvious. Where she popped over the partition is the one place in the whole fucking office where my lap could be seen. Fuck, fuck and double fuck, I curse. What do I do and what do I say to her? Damage control is in the forefront of my mind. Will she go to Jeff, the asshole? Will he believe her? The answer to the second question is far easier than the first. Yes, yes, a thousand times yes, he will believe her, I conclude.

Always a realist, even if a cynic and a pessimist I know what he will do. He would never dare to fire me but he would hold it over my head for the rest of my professional life at Beyea Associates. Blow jobs and quick fucks after office hours will become the order of the day, if she talks. My mind is racing, gnawing at the pivotal question. Will she tell? Agitated, I toy with the idea that the clock is an animate object, with a will and a personality of its own. That it has maliciously planned to drag all afternoon and then race through Stephanie’s coffee break while I was fantasizing so I would be caught, exposed, revealed to all the office for what I am, what ever that may be. Ruefully, I answer my own question. A sexually frustrated woman, that’s what I am. A sexually frustrated woman who has come to the realization in the last several minutes that she has a craving to taste the sexual favors, the hidden delights of another, younger woman. I finally admit the truth to myself. Rising from my desk, straightening my skirt, patting my hair back into place, I go to face Stephanie and whatever fate has in store for me.

Stephanie is at her desk, madly typing at her keyboard.

As I approach I know she is aware I am coming but her head stays down, studiously ignoring me. “Stephanie…” I whisper in a hoarse voice.

“Yes, Janie?”

“What did you see just then? What do you think you saw just now, when you popped your head over the divider and looked into my office?”

“Nothing, Janie. Nothing, I promise I didn’t see anything.” Her head stays down, her eyes avoiding mine. If there was any lingering doubt that she may, in fact, not have seen anything, her next comment totally destroys it.

“I promise, Janie. I’ll always come around to your door from now on, forever. I promise, cross my heart.” She has stopped typing, but her eyes remain down caste. The silence is absolute.

The two of us are frozen in this moment in time. Immobile, neither of us is able to act, to speak to move forward. It is as if a terrorist has thrown a bomb into the office and we stand frozen, looking at it and each other, incapable of acting, watching our lives flash before our eyes. Nothing happens, a slow fuse, a dud? Has fate intervened?


“Yes, Stephanie?”

“What were you thinking about in your office a few minutes ago?”

“Sorry, Stephanie, I wasn’t thinking, I was just acting irresponsibly.”

“No, Janie, that’s not what I mean.”

“What do you mean then?”

“I mean what were you fantasizing about when I so unexpectedly popped up over the divider?”

The question flusters me. “Well…really…I…. I… was just thinking romantic thoughts.”.

“Were they about Gerald?”


“Were they about Gerald,” she repeats more insistently? Still I fail to answer.

“Then they were about something or someone else, weren’t they?” It is not a question. It is a statement of fact. For the first time, her eyes rise from the keyboard and she looks me directly in the eye. “Janie…”

“Yes…” I whisper as she looks away.

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