Chapter 12
In the morning, Toby woke up late, and lazy, with a don't-give-a-shit feeling about getting to the office on time. She lingered in the shower, relishing her remembrance of her marathon fucking with the boys the night before. Her eager-beaver patrol, she thought, smiling to herself as she toweled herself dry.
She was amazed to discover that the thought of the boys and their insatiable, always-ready-for-more young pricks had an arousing effect on her. She'd have thought she'd be sated with sex this morning, jaded, tired of even the thought of it, after all that activity; ready to go through another months-long stretch of celibacy, as she'd just done.
No such thing. It was as if a dam had burst, in all that excess of sexual excitement and gratification. Already, now, first thing in the morning, she was ready for more. And she wasn't even sore.
She'd expected to be, particularly in the area of her seldom-violated ass-hole. But she felt not even a trace of soreness there. And her twat should be stretched and weary, you'd think, after all that reaming by those enthusiastic, rigid young cocks. But it wasn't, internally, anyway. As she finished drying herself, she bent to take a good look at herself, and found that her pussy looked as fresh, as pert, as neatly, pinkly pursed as ever. Virginal-looking, practically, if you didn't know better.
Waiting for the coffee water to boil, she started wondering what it all meant, this sudden wild, surging, almost uncontrollable lust for young boys. And she didn't have to wonder long. Halfway through her toast and coffee, she thought she knew.
She'd found the academic life deadly dull, especially those interminable hours in front of college classrooms, full of students as bored as she was with the whole routine. She'd found the kids themselves a drag, term after term, with their same stereotyped set of hang-ups behind different, ever-changing faces.
So she'd never gotten to know any of the undergraduates well, never as people, only the names that went with which faces. Even though she looked as young or younger than most of the undergraduates, she had nothing to do with them, outside the classroom. She limited her social life to her colleagues, her teaching contemporaries. Her sporadic sexual activities were confined to other young or youngish male instructors, assistant professors, associate professors. Well, there had been one forty-five-year-old full professor, and that had been the only worthwhile, memorable episode in her whole skimpy academic sexual career. The others had been mostly coolly cerebral, or conversational, or earnest, and all of them had been dull, dull, dull.
She'd found that the--likeliest of the lot, the passionately earnest ones, had wanted to make something meaningful out of every simple fucking episode. Deep. Lasting. She'd wanted no part of that.
Thinking of those three years now, she marveled at her short-sightedness. Day after day, week after week, month after month, she'd stood in front of roomfuls of infinitely willing young cocks, much like that wonderful array last night, and she'd done nothing, absolutely nothing, to partake of that feast of hard flesh and muscle. What a waste. She could have sported the happiest cunt on campus.
Well, she thought, putting her empty coffee cup in the sink, no sense crying over unspilt semen. From here on in, she wasn't about to do any mourning over opportunities passed over. With what she'd just realized about herself, she'd just go ahead and enjoy herself, to the limit, any time she felt like it. For a while, anyway, as long as it excited her as it did now. The young ones, for her, with their insatiable lusts and their resilient, springing-up-for-more cocks.
A cradle robber, that's what she'd be called, she thought cheerfully, opening the door to her clothes closet. Cradle snatcher. Or the girl with the cradle-snatching snatch. She liked that.
She reached into the closet, hesitated, and brought her hand back empty. What she wore to the office usually was a slack suit, or a blouse or shirt and slacks, or even blue jeans. One of the older men in the office had once commented on the way the girls dressed, Toby among them, or maybe Toby particularly. "They all look," he'd said, smiling in a weary, resigned sort of way, "as if they'd just fallen off a motorcycle."
Well, not today, she decided. She didn't feel as if she'd just fallen off a motorcycle, and she wasn't about to dress that way. She felt very much alive, eager, awakened, especially in the sex department. So why not dress that way? Let everybody know how alive she felt. Might even perk up some of the tired souls around the office.
She took down a light, flimsy, summer dress with a very short skirt, that she'd never worn. Her older sister had sent it to her, she couldn't remember when, because it was too frivolous for her.
Toby stepped into her sexiest shoes, then into white mesh bikini-cut panties. She slipped the flimsy, revealing summer dress on, over her head, past her bare, buoyantly jiggling breasts, and wriggled the hem down till it stopped, only a few inches down on her bare tanned luscious thighs.
She smiled to herself, happily, and picked up her handbag.
She was ready for the office. The question was, was the office ready for her?
All through the day, she got a lot of yearning attention from many sets of male eyes, in the advertising agency where she worked, as a combination secretary and executive assistant to the creative director. She found that she enjoyed all those longing looks, both the sneaky ones and the bold ones. They made her feel somehow happy and horny at the same time. It was a good feeling. She didn't fight it.
The boldest looks of all came from Ralph, the tall blond boy who worked in the mailroom, and made a tour of the office every hour or so with interoffice correspondence.
She liked Ralph, always had, from the first day she'd worked there. He'd made it a habit to stop often at her desk, making small jokes or aimless but pleasant conversation. Today he made twice as many stops at her desk as usual, and fingered longer.
"You look even lovelier than usual, today," he said. "You've got me all choked up."
"Thank you," she said. "I expect it's just that I'm wearing a dress, for a change."
"It's what's in the dress," Ralph said, his eyes feasting on the tender morsels of her nipples, showing in a shadowed but unmistakable way through the sheer dress. "Beautiful. Downright delicious."
"Delicious? That's a strange word to use, to flatter a working girl."
"Delicious," Ralph repeated. "You look good enough to eat."
"Hoi" she said, looking up at him. "Don't talk dirty, Ralph."
"I didn't mean that way," he said, dropping his eyes. But his embarrassment was fleeting. "Then again, maybe I did."
"Ralph!" she said, enjoying her phony act. "We're in the office."
"Sure are, dammit," he said, and went away.
But the fragmentary exchange of veiled sexual pleasantries made her feel even better.
At five o'clock, when most of the people were leaving, Toby felt so good she decided to work late, and finish sorting and typing up a creative department analysis and report, a job she'd been putting off for almost a week.
By six-thirty, she still had a few pages to go, but she felt hungry. She pushed back from her desk and went downstairs to the coffee shop.
When she got back, the cleaning women were just leaving, and she thought she was alone in the office. Without any interruptions, she finished what she was doing a lot quicker than she'd have thought possible.
She was just fitting the cover on her typewriter when she realized she'd been wrong, about being alone in the office. Ralph stood by her desk, smiling at her. He had a paper cup in his hand.
"Would you like a drink before you go?" he asked. "We've got a bottle of vodka and some tonic, out in the mailroom."
"Sure," she said. "Best idea I've heard all day."
It was, too, she thought. She'd wanted to get a drink when she'd gone down to eat, but didn't want to take the time, with the rest of the typing job still hanging over her.
"The mail room's a messy place," Ralph said, as she stood up and smoothed down what there was of her skirt. Her luscious tanned thighs looked strangely out of place in the cold, efficient array of desks and typewriters. "Why don't I bring your drink back here?"
"Good," Toby said. "Bring it into Wilton's office. At least there's some comfortable furniture there, to sit on."
Wilton was her boss. He'd left around five-thirty. She went into his office and turned on his desk lamp and the two floor lamps. Without the overhead lights, his office was quite a pleasant place, with wall-to-wall carpeting, a long gray couch, and a couple of armchairs.
She was sitting in one of the armchairs, smoking a cigarette, when Ralph came into the office, carrying a bowl of ice cubes and a stack of paper cups. Behind him was Jay, the black mailroom boy. She liked Jay, too, but he didn't come around as often as Ralph did.
"I brought Jay with me," Ralph said. "Had to. It's his bottle." Jay was carrying the vodka and a quart bottle of tonic.
"Good," she said. "Nothing like having a friendly little cocktail hour right in the office."
Ralph made her a drink, a strong one, she noticed approvingly, using Wilton's desk as a bar. After he'd handed the drink to her, he freshened his own drink, and Jay's, and the two boys sat down on the couch, facing her. They raised their glasses to her, or rather their paper cups.
"To after-hours," Ralph said, "and to the loveliest girl in the office. Or any other office, for that matter."
"Thank you," Toby said, and took a deep swallow. It went down just fine. And she felt just as good as when she'd left home that morning.
"I told Toby this afternoon," Ralph said, turning to Jay, "that she looked delicious, and she said what did that mean, and I told her. She looks good enough to eat."
"I agree," Jay said, looking hungrily at the delectable display of her crossed legs. Her skirt was nowhere, as far as concealment went. The hem lay across her lower belly and hips.
"I told you, Ralph, you shouldn't talk that way in the office." But she smiled broadly at them when she said it. She was excited, all over again, for the skatey-eighth time in the last twenty-four hours. Cradle snatcher, that's what she was. Why fight it?
"It's after office horns," Ralph said. "So I can talk that way, if you don't mind."
"I don't mind," she said. "Tell you the truth, I kind of like it. But I'm a big girl now, and you're both so young."
"I'm nineteen," Ralph said.
"So'm I," Jay said. "Hardly any younger than you are."
"Me? I'm twenty-six."
"No!" Jay said.
"Hard to believe," Ralph said. "But when you were nineteen, didn't you talk pretty freely about sex?"
"I guess so. Sure. Younger than that."
"How much younger?" Jay wanted to know. "You mean how old was I when I started talking about sex."
"Well.. . "
"Or do you mean, how old was I when I started to fuck?"
They both looked at her, startled, then started to smile.
"Make me another drink," she said, "and if you want me to, I'll tell you all about it."
Jay stood up and started to make her drink, while Ralph, very casually, stood up and closed the office door.
She was filled with a strange, new, pulsing excitement. Her old urge to tease had risen up, almost uncontrollably, and she had no reason to control it.
She could tease these boys into a lather, she knew, joyously. Just by talking.