A Quickie in the Commodore's Office

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I gulped, blinking, the door to the office closing behind the tall guy, and then it was just the naked girl with the smoky eyes, sitting on the Commodore's desk. I saw her, pale, almost white in the office's harsh lighting, the swells of her body perfect and voluptuous as she hopped off the desk and scratched absently at her perfect alabaster ass.

She took a pair of mincing steps out onto the rug before the desk, then stretched her arms high as she rotated, and I felt my breath leave me once more as I took her in. She was a statue, a model of female perfection, every part of her body smooth and firm and desirable. Her breasts shuddered high and perfect on her chest, the nipples still hard from her orgasm, and I let my eyes move down her skin, past the tempting curve where her belly sloped down to her pussy, the hair down there a dark, thick mat; of course. No respectable girl would have shaved herself, not in 1958.

She shifted her weight from foot to foot, every muscle flexing, and then she sighed and gazed down at herself. I saw her look around briefly, eventually settling on her cast-off gloves; she crouched down to fetch them from the floor, then used both of them to very carefully mop the semen from the inside of her thighs, wiping critically several times before tossing them carelessly into the wastebasket.

She padded around the little room, stooping every now and then, her lush body flexing as she bent to pick up bits of her clothing. The gown was a thick, shiny pile on the floor, and she stepped methodically into her pair of high-cut satin panties before putting on that practical, heavily engineered bra you'd see in old newspaper ads from the forties, the kind with drawings. She contorted her arms to make sure everything was fastened properly, then she spoke into the air. "You can come out now," she called, sounding quite unconcerned, and it took me several moments before I realized she was talking to me.

Shit.

Ashamed, I let the door ease slowly open. The girl showed neither surprise nor embarrassment that I was there. She glanced over at me coolly, tossing her hair back. "You're the bass player." It wasn't a question. "Do me a favor?"

"Uh, sure." My voice sounded unnatural even to me, but she didn't seem to care.

"My pocketbook is over on the office chair. How about you get me a Camel from the pack in there?" She was back down on the floor, nearly squatting, gathering more clothes from where they'd been kicked underneath the desk. I swallowed and nodded, and by the time I turned back around she was sitting on the sofa with her legs in the air, rolling her stockings up her luscious thigh. The whole room stank faintly of body odor and the vaguely starchy smell of sex. "Light it for me, sweetie, will you?"

"Sure." I dug around in the little black purse, found the half-crushed pack of smokes, and pulled them out along with a Zippo lighter.

"Get yourself one, too." She was finishing up with her stockings, craning beneath her own leg to check on a small ladderlike run she'd found there, and in the process showing me where her white panties were plastered against her pussy. I saw the spermy dampness there. "Darn stockings," she muttered, and then she giggled. "That's quite a pun." She glanced at me as if she was expecting me to laugh, but I didn't get the joke. I put the cigarette into my dry mouth and lit it, getting it started for her before I stepped over to her and handed it across. "Thanks, doll," she smiled, her eyes alert and crafty. "You're swell."

"Don't mention it." My hand trembled as I pulled out another Camel. I hadn't really smoked in a couple years, but if there was ever a time I needed one, it was now. I tried hard not to look at her, sitting there in her undergarments, but she didn't seem to care at all. "I'm, uh, I'm not really from around here," I stammered, having nothing else to say.

She looked at me, the smoke drifting above her head, and cocked her head. "I can tell. What's your name, honey?"

"Um, Justin Clamm."

"Clamm." She drew in another puff, held it in while she thought about it. "Any relation to George Clamm, over on Fifth Street?"

My great-uncle's name was George. Fuck. I shook my head. "Not that I know of."

"Huh." She shrugged, her big tits quaking even in the heavy-duty bra. "I was just wondering." We smoked meditatively for a moment, me leaning backward against the desk, feeling the sticky sweat her body had left there. "Sorry about distracting you out there. During the song?" She chuckled. "When you cussed?"

"Oh." I shrugged. "Nah. It's okay." I paused. "Who are you, anyway?"

"I'm Betty. Betty Hicks. Call me up sometime." She arched her eyebrow at me. "Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the peepshow," she added wryly, looking up at me from under her long lashes. "I'm sure you can see yourself out, daddy-o. I really must make myself decent." Her voice was mocking and cynical, but I knew she was right. I should leave. I straightened up and toyed with my jacket.

"Uh, take care?" I guessed, wondering whether that was something people said in 1958. My brain was slowing down at last, wondering what else I'd have to figure out here.

"Back atcha." She waved, sitting up now in a pinup pose with her legs crossed, looking like a starlet or a whore. "Oh," she added, as my hand reached the knob, "nice bass." Thick lashes lowered in a flirty wink, and I left with an uncertain smile.

"Happy Halloween," I muttered as I shut the door to the Commodore's office.

I walked back across the dance floor in a weird, cottony sort of daze, mounting the stage and looking absently down at my gear. Jeff was there with a ten and two singles. "Pretty good take." I took the bills blandly, noticing the ten was from series 1956. He hesitated. "You were kind of a spaz there in that last set. Maybe you should cool it a little, on the booze?"

"Sure, Jeff. Sure." I nodded like a bobble-head, the world buzzing loudly around me as I knelt to unplug the old P-bass... well, I guessed, the new P-bass now. I sighed. "It's under control."

"Got it." I felt his hand on my shoulder, ran my own fingers over the back of the bass' neck. "Later."

"Later," I echoed, and then I reached for the plug. And when I pulled it out, the air crackled again, the wrapped-in-foil feeling returned, and the '58 lay there, leaning against my old 1998 Ampeg.

And when I spun, my Vans scuffing the stage, to look for a short girl in a killer dress with dark eyes, there was nobody there.

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