Best Kept Secrets

A few days later, again in the cafeteria, but at the vending machines, Mickey overheard a couple of the company's salesmen—who all thought they were God's gifts to women—remarking to one another what a beauty the new woman in Research and Development was and what a shame she was as cold as the iceberg that sank the Titanic. There were further lewd remarks about what they'd like to do to her sexually, or have her do to them.

As the two sought a place to sit, they both made attempts to sit at her table by using cheesy pick-up lines that few women—even those looking to get picked up—fell for anymore. Mickey was not close enough to hear it all, but of course, they did strike out, and had to find another table. Mickey was glad.

As he passed the salesmen—whom he'd met the day before—Mickey was invited to join them. He politely declined. At Leslie's table, he asked, without presumption, "May I?"

"Of course. You don't have to ask," she answered, loud enough for the salesmen to hear.

"Are they giving you a hard time?"

Leslie shrugged. "I usually prefer the company of men to women. I don't know why. But the one exception is guys like those two." She gestured to the salesmen with her head. "Macho types like that who think that women cannot live without them are, to me, the ultimate turn off."

Mickey smiled. "Well, don't be too hard on them. They're salesmen. They're paid to be sure of themselves. Their only problem is that they don't know how to adjust to a situation. They have only one approach."

I'm glad you're not like that, Leslie thought.

Even though this was their third day eating lunch together, their discussions had not evolved beyond work and only very general non-occupational topics. Positively nothing personal. The non-resolvable issue on each of their minds was whether the reason was because they still didn't know each other well enough—which would never happen until they did start having personal conversations—or because each was too apprehensive to bring up such issues.

Still, they were attracted to one another.

Later in the afternoon, the two salesmen dropped by Mickey's office looking like they were up to no good.

"Ewing, what's up, dude?" one asked, both leaning on opposite sides of the doorframe.

"Hi, guys," he greeted. "What can I do for you?"

"What's your secret?" The other asked.

"Excuse me?" Mickey said with an uncomprehending frown, although he had a sense where this was going.

"George's hot new assistant; what's your secret with her?"

Mickey eyed the pitiful pair and admonished, "There's no secret to treating a woman like a lady and not a conquest to be won or lost. She's a human being and deserves the same respect you'd give a man. Furthermore, she's married and I'm married so our relationship is one of friendship, nothing more."

Without Mickey knowing it, standing outside his office was the subject of the conversation. Overhearing the exchange confirmed everything Leslie thought about Mickey, and it only endeared him to her more, although she was disheartened to hear him say they were nothing more than friends, though realistically, she knew that's all they could be. Still, she would have enjoyed the fantasy of more. When the two salesmen departed, she entered. "Did you really mean that?" she asked.

"You heard?"

"I wasn't eavesdropping," Leslie said quickly in her own defense, "but I was passing by and couldn't help listening."

"Of course, I meant it."

"I believe you did. Thank you. You make me proud to be your friend."

Both were deeply and lastingly touched. Subconsciously, both knew that their relationship, such as it was, was entering a new dimension.

And so went this "relationship of friendship," which really consisted only of their lunchtime meetings. However, they learned much about each another and developed a trust that was even deeper.

Michael Ewing cherished the friendship because it not only showed him an area in which his marriage was sadly lacking, but it also filled that void. In Leslie, he had a woman with whom he could talk about things of substance as well as things of nonsense; subjects not entirely sexual, but ones that a man preferred discussing with a woman. Often he felt guilty because he could talk to Leslie in ways and about things that he couldn't broach with his wife. There was just something in Leslie's gentle nature and receptive manner that drew him to open up.

The icing on the cake—he was a man and he couldn't avoid these thoughts—was that she was also a very attractive and desirable woman. And he couldn't help from time to time spilling a few drops of semen imagining his hand was her.

But the one subject he did not discuss was the poor state of his marriage. Much as he wanted to, he did not want to burden their friendship with such details.

Of Mickey, Leslie learned that he was unquestionably the best man—person even—she had ever known. He had an almost unique trait: when someone angered him, causing him to lose his temper and deal a harsh word, his fury was directed only at the person responsible and then only for the one infraction that person had done to arouse his anger. Best of all, he did not take out personal annoyances and problems on anyone. He was always cheerful; so totally different from her husband. Mickey actually listened when she talked, and more than that, he seemed genuinely interested.

But as much talking of personal things as she did, one thing she did not mention was her miserable marriage. As much as she wanted to, it somehow just didn't seem to fit in.

Leslie and her husband had reached a stage of existence such that, whether either wanted it or not, sex was more trouble than it was worth. That was sad for her because she actually enjoyed the act. Although, from what she had seen, read and heard, the intercourse her husband provided was not anything to write a letter to a sex magazine about. So, except for a few rare occasions, her sex life was almost non-existent.

However, since she had been working with and gotten closer to Mickey, she started to experience subtle feelings of arousal when they were together during lunch and the discussion turned sexual, and more often, at home when she merely thought of him. She and her husband had only had sex three times in the few months of her new job, and the last two times, she had imagined it was Mickey and not her husband. Though it had helped, it was still not enough to make the incompetent copulation much better.

It was, of course, inevitable that Leslie Withe and Michael Ewing would fall in love. Their relationship was built on and grew out of a mutual need for intimate communication. It is probable that because they were so intimate without being physical or sexual their needs for one another expanded and love was the next emotional step.

The problem was that as intimate as their dialogue was, they respected each another too much to burden their relationship, such as it was, with a profession of love, particularly since neither knew of the other's marital problems, and as a result, regarded each other as unattainable.

For Leslie, she had sensed that her feelings for Mickey were gradually getting stronger, but she was hesitant to believe that she was actually in love with him because there had been nothing more than talk between them. However, the realization came to her some six months after they began employment with Ford Enterprises. A party was given by Peter's brother, Paul (most everyone saw the humor in their names), a vice president of the company, except that no one really knew what he did. He was rarely in the office and had a reputation as a playboy, even worse than his brother once had. He was also known to throw "wild parties," and apparently, once or twice a year he threw one for select people who worked for Ford, many of whom he didn't even know.

Having only been employed a short time, both Mickey and Leslie were surprised to receive the much sought after invitation, and could only assume that George was responsible. It appeared he had taken a liking to both, undoubtedly because he had hired them, and unlike others in R & D, the two had allegiances to no one else in the company. Both planned to attend only because they were almost required to.

To keep up appearances, Leslie had asked her husband, James, to accompany her. He didn't want to, but he reluctantly agreed. However, as the evening drew nearer, it became increasingly evident that he was looking to back out, but she didn't give him any opportunity to do that. So, in an almost predictable maneuver, a couple of hours before the party, just as she was about to start getting ready, he decided to start an argument. At that time, she was almost beyond the point of caring, so annoying had he become in his snide remarks about having to go, that she would have simply told him not to worry about it. But what caused the fight to escalate and really upset her was when he unnecessarily picked on her looks; nothing specific because he knew there was really nothing to criticize. But it provided him with the fortitude he apparently needed to storm out of the house.

Good riddance and I hope the door smacks you in the ass as you leave, Leslie thought, wondering why she had even wanted him to go in the first place, appearances or not.

Still, though James's remarks were only for the purposes of a fight, it didn't stop Leslie from taking a good look at herself in her floor-length mirror. And though she had no delusions about being a beauty queen, the refection that stared back at her was nothing to be ashamed of. She was not trim like a runway model, but neither was she overweight, although she was probably at the high end of the range for her ideal body weight.

Lifting up her shirt to expose her bra, her breasts were not large, but on the larger side of average for her also average height. Removing her shirt and bra, Leslie noted that her breasts had virtually no sag. She cupped each round orb in the palm of each hand, the tips of her forefingers making contact with the end of her nipples. She couldn't help but allow her digits to stroke the tips for a couple of seconds. Her eyes widened and a smile crossed her lips.

To complete her inspection, Leslie removed her skirt and panties. Her palm smoothed over her flat stomach, and then with hands on hips, she twisted to see her round buttocks; nothing displeasing there. She felt a sand-paperish stubble on her vaginal lips, which she would shave before dressing—not that anyone was going to know or care—and then approved of her thighs and calves, each with the appropriate amount of muscle.

Having enjoyed the tingle in her nipples, Leslie's finger's returned to the tips, rubbing little circles in each, until they became hard nubbins. She again felt the thrill, which quickly transferred to her pussy. Her thighs tightened, exerting slight pressure on her clit.

After a moment, Leslie strolled over to her bed, laying on her side facing the window to contemplate her future as the sun was beginning its descent to the horizon. Still upset by her husband's cruel attack on her looks, there was little doubt now that this was the beginning of the end of her marriage, and not surprisingly, she was not saddened by that prospect. Perhaps what was far more woeful was that she couldn't—or wouldn't—tell Mickey, much as she would like to, too fearful what he might think of her for allowing her marriage to fail. But at least she would see him tonight. Often, when she and James fought, she couldn't wait to get to work and then to lunch so she could be with Mickey. Even though she would not discuss the fight with him, his gentle manner and sense of humor calmed her, made her forget.

Even more disappointing, as she lay there in all of her naked glory, was that Mickey wasn't lying here beside her, touching her, kissing her, making love to her.

Leslie closed her eyes, not in sadness or remorse, but in fantasy, imagining the man of her dreams was here with her. Yet again, her fingers went to her nipples, skimming all four fingers of each hand over each tip with the lightest of touches. After several passes, her body tingled all over with arousal. She cupped her breasts, kneading them and pressing them together before pinching her nipples.

With an image of Mickey still dominating her thoughts, Leslie's right hand reached down, her forefinger making electric contact with her clit. Her left hand joined in instantly, pulling her lips apart, and the two middle fingers of her right hand made circular motions around her clitoral hood. But after a minute of this she could not resist forcing a finger into her vaginal opening, fucking herself. One finger was not enough, so a second was added, and when that did not suffice, a third did the trick.

While screwing herself with three fingers, Leslie used the forefinger from her left hand to rub her clit. Then, with her middle finger, she pushed back the hood as far as she could to stroke the thin clitoral shaft.

Screaming aloud her pleasure, Leslie removed her three dripping fingers from within to concentrate solely on her clitoral area. She was becoming so wet that withdrawing her fingers caused vaginal liquids to roll down her perineum toward her anus. She scooped up some of that juice to use on her clit.

The feeling was divine. Again, Leslie pulled the hood back to stroke and squeeze her clit and its shaft. Withdrawing her left hand, she raised and latched onto the pillow on which her head was resting, squeezing the pillow as pleasure was overtaking her.

"Mickey, Mickey, Mickey," she chanted silently to herself as she rolled on to her left side, squeezing her legs together, trapping her hand there.

The orgasmic wave was spreading throughout her body. Her left hand caressed her breasts to help complete the process. Within seconds, Leslie was whimpering into her pillow as she climaxed.

Afterward, she removed her hand from her pussy. Without thinking, she licked her soaked fingers, and at once felt silly for what she had done.

Masturbation had become her only method of real sexual satisfaction, particularly now with Mickey as the mental stimulus. But each time she did it—and it seemingly was becoming more frequent—she felt as though she had slipped into some schoolgirl mode as though she was normally too mature to do something like that.

Still, Leslie couldn't help but enjoy the wonderful feelings that came with it and the escape, however brief, and so, she of course allowed herself to continue doing it.

But now, her foolishness was causing her to be late. Even though it made her feel good, it was only temporary. On the other hand, Mickey had such a long-lasting soothing effect on her that she wanted to spend as much time with him as she could tonight.

Incredible as it may seem, Mickey and Leslie discovered their feelings of love for each other within a day of one another. In Mickey's case, he literally woke up one morning aware of his love for Leslie.

She realized her feelings, awkwardly, the first time she met his wife at the party. In her eagerness and hurry to get to there, Leslie failed to consider the fact that Mickey's wife would be present. She became abruptly aware of this as she rushed into Paul Ford's luxury condo, hastily greeting fellow employees and finally locating Mickey. So excited was she now that she tapped him on the shoulder, smiling broadly. Leslie gasped as Mickey turned and in so doing revealed his wife who had previously been obscured. Leslie recognized her from a picture on Mickey's desk.

Leslie was appalled, embarrassed, suddenly distraught, but did her best to keep it from showing. As Mickey formally introduced his wife, Victoria—whom Leslie recalled from conversations with Mickey hated to be called Vicki—Leslie only wanted to turn and leave as quickly as she had come. But, not one to cause a scene, she politely stayed.

Sensing ill, Mickey asked, "Where's James?" Likewise, Mickey remembered that Leslie's husband didn't want to be called Jim or Jimmy or any other derivative.

"He couldn't make it," she answered reluctantly.

It was an awkward situation at best. But as the three stood there making casual—and boring—conversation, Leslie found herself becoming jealous of Victoria Ewing, holding onto her husband's arm. The reason, Leslie just as gradually realized, was that she'd never had to compete with anyone for the time she spent with Mickey. Rarely did a workday pass without the two lunching together.

It was at this moment that Leslie knew that Mickey meant more to her than merely a close friend. She still didn't quite equate the feeling with love until later.

"Is that Sheila Easterly?" Victoria Ewing asked out of the clear blue.

Mickey glanced in the direction his wife was pointing. "That's Sheila Easterly from Marketing. You know her?"

"Yes. She's an old friend from college. I haven't seen her in years. Excuse me." Victoria walked off leaving Mickey and Leslie alone.

After she was certain Victoria was seriously engaged in reminiscent conversation, Leslie asked, "Buy me a drink?"

Checking his own glass, Mickey answered, "I could use one also."

They left the living room for the dining room where a bar had been set up. As the bartender mixed their drinks, Mickey commented, "You look incredible tonight." It had been all he could do not to devour her with his eyes in front of his wife.

Glancing down at herself as though having forgotten what she was wearing, Leslie thanked him. She had, in fact, gone through several outfits—contributing further to her tardiness—before settling on a collarless blouse that matched her auburn hair in color, and was lower cut up top than anything she wore to work. Likewise, her tight, but not vulgar, black skirt was a couple of inches shorter than she normally wore. But this was a party after all, and the attire did show off her breasts and sheer black-stockinged legs. Of course, there was only one set of eyes she wanted to impress, and aside from his polite, though she was certain genuine compliment, the fact that Mickey was continually stealing glances at her spoke voluminously of her success.

"If I'd known you were going to be alone I'd have left Donna home. She really didn't want to come in the first place. I dragged her." What a fool I am, Mickey thought.

Why did you have to do that? Leslie's subconscious asked. "I hate being here alone, too," Leslie said. "Unfortunately, I couldn't drag James."

"Is something wrong?" Mickey asked.

Yes, yes, yes, she wanted to answer. I can't stand the sonofabitch! Instead, she merely mumbled, "No."

Mickey felt that her hesitancy was a clue that something was amiss. But obviously she did not want to discuss it, so he didn't press it.

George and Donna Rome passed by and stopped to talk for a minute. But Mickey had a difficult time focusing on the discussion because it wasn't bad enough that he couldn't keep his eyes off of Leslie, but Donna was unquestionably the hottest woman at the party. Her outfit was even more revealing than Leslie's. But aside from the fact that she was his boss's wife, they were also still mostly newlyweds.

"Down, boy," Leslie cautioned after they walked off. "That would be suicide."

"Oh, I know," Mickey mumbled. "I wouldn't . . . she just . . . she just makes an indelible impression." He quickly recovered and added, "Besides, she doesn't hold candle to you."

The room was lit dimly enough that Leslie was sure he didn't see her blush. If only he meant it, she wished. "Well, that's nice of you to say, but I don't think you really mean it. And shouldn't you really be saying that about your wife?"