tagLesbian SexClerical Terror

Clerical Terror


Welcome once more, mes amies, to Smokeyville—your comfy little cubby hole for tasty Sapphic sexual torment and heartwarming romance. You're looking well. No, I did not lose control of my bladder; I'm just happy to see you.

We've just passed a few sort of "milestone" Smokey Sagas...I don't know why I'm saying "we," since I've always written and edited these on my own. But some of you've been "with" me a good couple years, and please don't think I haven't noticed. For a bit, I stopped doing intros. I don't know if they'll come with every story anymore. I also didn't think I needed to keep labeling or numbering them (but in case you're at all curious, you're about to read number 81). And depending on how many of my stories you've read, Beloved Reader, the erotic elements/arc in this story may seem familiar. What can I say; it's one of my favorite scenarios, italic period. You'll probably see it more in the future as well. There is a bit of a twist on it in this story, though. Enjoy.



Quinn Front O' Bars And On The Clock

Thursday, October 7th, 2010, 8:28 a.m.

Quinn threw her car into a vacant space, snatched her purse, slammed the door and raced up the steps to the building. Another exciting, Earth-shattering day of clerical duties awaited at the Klondike Industries Corporation—Juniper, MN branch—housed in the enormous complex of the same name. And Quinn was terribly desperate to be not a single second tardy.

She half-trotted and half-scampered into the suite, around the corners, and to the accounting department where her daily livelihood took place. She was 23 years old, full of energy and exuberance, and eager to please. She'd been taken on as an employee here a few months back, and vowed that Klondike would never regret it. She ran late today, hastening to her cubicle to log on.

"'Kay...'kay, here we go..." she muttered, bringing up her login screen. "Q-Simmons at Klondi—..."

She stopped uttering for a breath. She gave the system the necessary time to load, and was granted access. The clock read 8:30. She snatched the mouse and clicked before 8:31 dropped and made her late.

"Phew!" She rolled out her chair and plopped in with relief. She'd managed to never be late a single day, and didn't aim to start now. The company was reportedly lenient on tardiness, but Quinn didn't want to risk racking up any demerits, large or small. Others might've played fast and loose with their menial jobs, especially the clerical ones. But Quinn refused to take hers for granted. Or let it bother her should anyone call her the "boss' pet." Not that anybody did.

She loved her job. What was more, she needed her job. When they'd taken her on in early July, Quinn was ecstatic. While still living with her folks, financially she needed some income. And emotionally, she needed somewhere to get up and go each day, to help uphold her pride. The position had become part of her identity, of her autonomy, of her self. She got to come to a beautiful office, work with a couple dozen cool people, sit in her own cubicle, and listen to music while she carried out her duties. And if she lost this job, she couldn't believe she'd ever find another one as good.

For all her admirable qualities, Quinn Lucy Simmons harbored a deep, dark secret that no one at Klondike knew—except for Raven Bower, the woman who'd interviewed her, hired her and was now her boss. The secret was a source of great pain and shame for her and those closest to her, and she only hoped enough time would pad its jagged edge. In her earlier 20s, Quinn spent a year in prison.

Two years ago, at the legal drinking age, Quinn went to a bar with a lady friend just to have some fun. Unfortunately, the alcohol affected her in the worst possible way. She was taken home, and Quinn asked her to please come inside and help put her to bed. Her friend obliged. But the totally plastered Quinn made a series of aggressive advances on her, and only narrowly avoided raping her by ineptitude of her inebriation. But the severity of the attempt reflected that of the act. Charges were pressed.

With the realization of her indiscretion and the consequences, Quinn's reaction was foreseeable. She was horrified. Both by the fact that she could do this in the first place, drunk or sober—to a friend, no less—and the prosecution and sentence. She'd only meant to get buzzed and enjoy the intoxication. It was the most awful thing to happen to date, both for Quinn and, she had to think, for the friend she'd gone out with. And the worst twelve months of her life. From this point forth, no one could hate Quinn more than she hated herself for what she'd done (with one possible exception). Nobody could punish her more severely than she punished herself. And maybe part of her could never forgive herself. But this year saw her endure some of the most terrible things she could imagine behind those bars, and some she couldn't. Gradually, the trauma helped her overcome the guilt. And she decided when her sentence was up, she had to move on. So following her year of hardened time, Quinn Simmons stepped back out through those doors, went home with her parents, and just talked and talked to them, until a thousand tears were cried and everything was on the table.

For a few months after, Quinn decided to be a hermit and lay low at home. Her debt may have been paid, but repercussions could buffet her at any turn. She wasn't sure she could bear going to the supermarket, the library, the mall, and being recognized from the news. Even if it had been over a year. But by late springtime, as the weather finally became nicer, cabin fever got to be too much. And Quinn needed something to occupy her time. A lot of it. But what? A job? Could that even happen? She already knew from filling out applications that she had to disclose if she'd ever been convicted of a crime. And attempting to lie would only make things worse. This sort of thing couldn't just be masked or buried. Who would hire her now?


The Quinnterview

Wednesday, June 30th, 2010, 8:57 a.m.

She found out at the tail end of June. The K.I.C. was looking for entry-level applicants for their expanding accounting department. No experience was necessary, which played in Quinn's favor. She was at a patent disadvantage, but decided to go in and give it her best...after electing to color her hair. Purely as a cosmetic measure. To restore and boost her self-confidence. Yes. That was why.

Her heart was beating like a Keith Moon solo as she approached the Klondike complex for the first time. She was clad in a new suit, felt prepared as could be, and trying to keep her cool. She was directed to where she'd meet one Miss Raven Bower. When Raven appeared, Quinn's heart reaccelerated. Something abruptly erased her first source of nervousness and replaced it with a new one.

The woman was stunning. She was 43—though she looked about seven or eight years younger—light brunette, with an almost perfect but slightly askew symmetry in her beautiful face and smile. She looked to Quinn's eye exactly like the gorgeous Melora Hardin, from the TV show...The Office. What serendipity! She took Quinn into her office and shut the door, which Quinn rather preferred. They chatted semi-loosely. The interview was more like a casual, friendly conversation. It made her feel somehow...safe, in presence of Miss Raven Bower and only her. Until, that was, twenty minutes in, when Raven asked her about the nature of her conviction.

Quinn froze momentarily. She couldn't say she didn't expect this to come up, but had no idea how to answer.


Raven held up a hand. "It's all right, Miss Simmons," she calmly assured. "I've actually already checked you out. I just wanted to hear it from you personally."

Quinn awkwardly dropped her eyes.

"Okay, well, um...yes...Miss Bower. I served a year...after a very ill-decided night of...heavy drinking, and...a...terrible error in judgment. But-but, I promise you, nothing like that'll ever happen again. I've sworn off drinking. At least for a good while."

"I understand, Quinn. Errors can be serious bad news. B-A-D, bad.

"D'you prefer Miss Simmons or Quinn, by the way?"

"Quinn's good."

"Very well. Quinn...do both of us a favor, and don't worry about it. I'm not here to judge you. I believe when a party has paid his or her debt to society, he or she is no longer guilty, and deserves a chance to start anew. This will not be held against you."

"Oh," Quinn exhaled with relief. "Thank you, Miss Bower. Uh, should I call you Miss Bower, or...Raven?"

"Whichever you're more comfortable with, Quinn. We're both adults."

"Well, eh, okay," said Quinn, working up a small smile. "Actually, to tell you the truth, I feel a little silly asking that now. Because to be honest, I think I'd rather call you Miss Bower. Maybe something in me just wants to be extra respectful. Is...that strange?"

"Not at all. You're completely entitled to your preferences. Therefore, I'll address you as Quinn, and you me as Miss Bower."

Quinn nodded, feeling much better and comfier. Raven took a moment to go through some papers on her desk, so Quinn took the same moment to look around the room. It was relatively standard for a department head's office. One corner was claimed by a fern. Bookshelves occupied opposite walls, one of which offered a bowl of candy. Also on the walls were plaques, certificates, a calendar, a filing folder system, and a piece or two of artwork. The generous-sized window lay behind half-closed Venetians. And the desk bore another calendar, along with Raven's pen holder, half-full coffee mug, pictured loved ones, stacks of filed papers, books and logs of reports, chairs on either side, and of course her computer. Quinn thought a simple, sincere compliment couldn't do any harm.

"...You have a really nice office...Miss Bower."

"Well, thank you."

Quinn's attention was drawn to a patch of wall behind where the door opened. It was covered with a large sheet.

"What's over there?"

"Beg your pardon, Quinn?"

Quinn turned back Raven's way.

"Oh, uh...just curious, Miss B. I know it's none of my beeswax, I was just wondering what that was."

"Oh, nothing consequential. Sort of a semi-recent, semi-confidential office project. Nothing you'd need to concern yourself with.

"Now then, Quinn. As you know, Klondike's looking for a team of workers for our accounting department. What with its expansion, we need reliable employees to scan, file and process checks and paperwork. Occasionally, you'll be asked to perform supplementary tasks, such as putting together reports and phoning clients. Would you say that you have the skills to carry out these duties?"

Quinn quickly, adamantly nodded. "I do. I do, Miss Bower, very much so. I really do."

Raven collected her loose papers together and tapped them on the desk.

"How important would you say this opportunity is to you?"

It was time for the compelling little speech she'd worked out beforehand. Quinn replied sans hesitation.

"Extremely. I dunno how many other employers—or people in general—would be as forgiving or understanding about my situation. I think this is a beautiful environment, and I know I'd really like it here. I need this job, Miss Bower. Badly. I can't even stress enough how much. My parents and I went online and read about Klondike, and it sounded terrific. And I'm not just saying that 'cause this place is so gorgeous. I'll put my nose to the grindstone for you. Please give me a chance. I swear you won't regret it."

A pause. Raven nodded.

"Well, I'll tell you, Quinn...you were punctual for your interview, and presented yourself with a businesslike demeanor and an upbeat disposition. I like your interest in Klondike and in this job...and what I told you before being said...I've one more question for you."


Raven offered Quinn a smile, and her hand.

"Can you start Monday?"


SubseQuinntly: Back To The Present

Thursday, October 7th, 2010, 11:11 a.m.

Quinn was so elated to get the job, it was all she could do not to leap right over the desk and hug Raven on the spot. But she made herself stay cool, and return the handshake. The following three months had led her to this day, which began just as any other. Per her wishes, Raven'd remained mum to everyone else vis-à-vis Quinn's year under lock and key. As long as her potential career at Klondike proceeded status quo, she could hardly see herself being happier.

Her co-workers/peers in the accounting department—a mix of fine ladies and gents—were kind and cordial, feelings she gladly returned. She'd been invited out to lunch with them a number of times. Then for birthdays, the entire gang went out together, or ordered in pizza—whichever the workmate of honor preferred. For Quinn, either'd be nice when hers came along in February.

She'd gotten to know most of the thirty or so colleagues sharing the office, to varying degrees. Besides her boss Raven, those Quinn knew best were: David, the gentleman who'd originally trained her on her duties; Georgia, the mobile liaison between departments who greeted everyone on her rounds; Leonard, the admin and supervisor who saw to the office's technical inner workings; and Wanda, Quinn's next-cube neighbor, with whom she often chatted on breaks, over coffee or a snack.

Klondike boasted the quintessential garden-variety office environment. Department suites were stuffed with cubicles, telephones, computers, files, nameplates, and framed photos of loved ones. And ones liked as a friend. The energy was moderate to low-key, positive and professional. The soundtrack was a smooth blend of keyboard-clicking, ringing phones, soft conversation, printing, faxing. The level of dress corresponded to ascension in the chain of command, with business-casual entry-levelers graduating to more formally dressed higher-ups. The architectural complex was tremendous, its exterior equally amazing. Outside, a pedicured checkerboard lawn stretched the grounds, decorated with umbrella'd dining tables, rock gardens, streams, fountains, and a tennis court. The corporate logo was solitaire-style series of playing cards—three kings face up—in the shape of a 'K.' Sometimes someone would waltz in whimsically humming or singing, "What would'ja do-oo-oo..." making tingle the sweet teeth of others. Suffice it to say, every ice cream social included their scrumptious bar-shaped namesake. And it was inside this office and accompanying environment that Quinn Lucy Simmons felt at home. Everything here made sense to her. Check that; almost everything.

For all the niceties and privileges Quinn felt came with this job, one thing had her stymied. Maybe, she thought, she had a different take on this whole occupation deal. But she noted what she felt a degree of...irreverence, from her co-workers. With the exception of her five colleagues aforementioned by name, they seemed, overall, to take their jobs sort of...for granted. Quinn knew it was neither her business nor territory, and so she kept her feelings to herself. And even if the supervisors didn't want an atmosphere too stuffy or uptight...still, she observed fellow Klondikers strolling into work looking less than presentable. She saw them park by one another's cubicles and carry on personal conversations literally upwards of twenty minutes. She viewed the occasional report that could only be described as "half-assed." She didn't get it. The economy was in serious trouble. Quinn didn't want to do a thing to jeopardize her job. Shouldn't her workmates feel the same way? Wouldn't they value their positions, their paychecks? Didn't they care? Did they not realize how fortunate they were just to be actively working? And to get to do it in such a beautiful, cushy office every day, no less?

Quinn knew enough to keep to herself and not rock the proverbial boat. She wasn't the boss here. She was entry-level for now, and that was more than fine by her. And not everyone in the office behaved this way. But sometimes the apparent indifference could get to Quinn, on her nerves, under her skin. She wouldn't go so far as to call folks out, squeal on them to the boss, or call them ingrates. Deep down, she was terrified of confrontation. Friction, tension, disappointment; it all scared the hell from her—while sober. When intoxicated, she clearly didn't give a hoot about confrontation, and/but couldn't trust her own behavior. Prison did not agree with her. Most of her done time was spent crying, cowering, and begging fellow inmates to please not hurt her. She cooperatively agreed to be her cellmate's bitch, hoping the other girl would protect her. But her submissive nature worked in her favor. The novelty of picking on and messing with her wore off quick, and so she was soon left alone. But it was the most petrifying experience of her life.

She felt, in a way, she'd gotten a taste of something war vets went through. Now and then, a pang of trauma or p.t.s.d.-esque turmoil stung. But she forced herself to mentally override. It made her a trifle stronger. Especially as she collected her wonderful new job at Klondike Industries. She threw herself into it. She was a natural follower who played by the rules. She was, before and after all, a good girl. And willed that nothing more would mar that reputation. Drawing out her compact to throw a check on her appearance, she'd made a habit of tapping her nose and mouthing, "Keep it clean, girl. Keep it clean."

The K.I.C.—an acronym for the company and not this little mantra of hers—requested a regular quota of its employees, and doled reward in kind. For instance, lunch. Klondike workers could technically take as much time for lunch as desired, needed only clock out for the duration, and could make up time at their convenience. If, on the other hand, one chose to have lunch at her or his desk and work simultaneously, clock-out was unnecessary. As for Quinn, she normally treated herself to a longer/sit-down lunch once a week, often with a workmate or three. A few minutes before noon, Wanda scooted her chair past the cube divider to address her.

"Hey Quinn?"

"What would'ja do-oo-oo...hm? Oh hey, Wanda, what's up?"

"Wanna go to the Moonbeam for lunch? 'S on me."

"Sure!" Quinn bookmarked her place and brought up the time system to clock out.


How To Quinn Friends And Flirt With People

Thursday, October 7th, 2010, 12:23 p.m.

Since Wanda offered to buy lunch, Quinn drove them to the Moonbeam Café. They parked their bums in a booth and ordered some gourmet sandwiches with chips and lemonade. Quinn's lemonade was plain, Wanda's pink. When the food arrived, they shared an appetized "Nahm," clinked their glasses and dug in.

"Mmmm..." Quinn approved. "I can has 'cheezburger,' but with tasty deli meat instead of burger."

"Mm." Wanda swallowed. "And I are serious cat, so please you step into my office after lunch, silly 'hooman.'" They giggled.

"...So Quinn, lemme ask you som'n'."

Quinn shot her a face.

"Is it why don't I look a thing like Dianna Agron?...'Cause I'm already tired of that 'cause of my quirky, quaint, quixotic name.

Everyone thinks it's so cute to ask me that, and they all think they're the first ones to come up with it."

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