Crunch Time - Wednesday

WEDNESDAY

Sam was feeling more than frustrated when he staggered out of the revolving door and into the foyer of the Radley building, carefully balancing his precious payload of overpriced morning joe.

He hadn't slept well. The night before was filled with rabid onanism followed by uneasy sleep.

The fact that at least three of his neighbors were loudly engaged in wall-shaking sexcapades of their own didn't help. This--considering two of the adjoining apartments housed elderly retired couples--raised some interesting questions when considering the stomach-turning logistics.

Mrs. Meyer baked a mean batch of lebkuchen but relied on a walking frame to get around...

Sam shuddered and shook off the impending visuals. He didn't want that type of therapy.

"Morning, Mister Hall. You're in a bit earlier than usual, ain't ya?" A muffled voice greeted him.

Henry was solidly rooted behind the front desk as usual but with some notable changes in his getup. The gray-haired codger was waving from behind a perspex sneeze guard wearing the same rumpled suit as yesterday with a 'kiss the cook' barbeque apron, yellow cleaning gloves, and an army green gas mask that looked like it was borrowed from a documentary about the second world war.

"Henry... is that you in there?" Sam could barely make out the beady eyes and bushy eyebrows behind the round glass apertures. "Are you doing okay?"

"Fine. Doing just fine, Mister Hall. They ain't talking about in the news yet, but the Chinese won't be taking ol' Henry by surprise this time. Got my grandpappy's field mask outta storage, see?"

His voice echoed like a tin can telephone from the round metal canister covering his nose and chin. He tapped at it instructively as though Sam might have missed the nightmare fuel strapped to his skull.

"I do see. That's... nice." The junior accountant hedged, slowly backing towards the elevator bank and reaching surreptitiously for the call button. No abrupt movements. "Are you sure that's really necessary?"

"Oh yes, Sir. My buddy George reckons the government is trying to knock off the older generation to save on aged pensions, but I says to him, 'George, take my word for it. It's the godless Chinese cooking up a new horse flu to wreak havoc on good Christian folks and play merry hell with the US economy.' That's what I told him."

The chiming of a bell and the grinding of metal doors opening signaled the arrival of the lift. Miracle of miracles, it was waiting on the ground floor for once. Sam would have to light a candle in thanks to whichever patron saint was responsible for escaping awkward, politically charged conversations.

"I'm sure everything is fine." He wasn't. Not even close. "Look after yourself, Henry."

"Same to you, Mister Hall! Same to you--"

Sam breathed out a sigh of relief as the closing doors cut off crazy old coot's blathering and readjusted his burdens. The regular Starbucks coffee order and a large brown paper bag with a grease stain forming at the bottom.

He was arriving early; that much was true, hoping to steal a march on the madness outside.

Sam had woken with an epic boner, pointing the direction to heaven like a vengeful, veiny prophet. He had jacked off twice in the shower to great, spunk-spewing relief but little reduction in manly stiffness before giving up and getting dressed for work.

Clothing had been a bit tricky. His pressed business shirts and fastidiously creased chino pants had been a tighter fit than usual. Extra poundage straining the buttons and testing the stitched seams. Sam was especially self-conscious of the outline of an obscene bulge tucked midway down one trouser leg.

The weight gain shouldn't have come as a surprise; calories were just numbers like any other. Credit versus debits. And one column had severely outweighed the other over the last few days.

Sweater vests to the rescue.

The humble wool-knit garment covered a lot of sins. The unofficial symbol of his calling in life. Today, it was a calming robin egg blue v-neck that hid the tortured buttons of his white collar shirt. Unpretentious. Unobtrusive.

Nothing to see here, folks. Pay no heed to the man in the corner.

That was the vibe Sam had tried to project in the coffee shop that morning. Just another nameless face in the crowd with his back pressed to the wall to save his beleaguered butt from further abuse.

Sam had watched wide-eyed as a stunning redhead in maroon yoga pants and a white sports bra chowed down on two acai bowls and a plate piled high with ham and cheese toasties while he waited. She was lean, fit, and fantastically leggy, with tits so large they could have won awards. They kept dragging his stare into the gravity well of her creamy cleavage as she moaned orgasmically at every mouthful.

She hadn't been an anomaly either. If only that were the case.

Filling the streets and every eatery Sam passed were office workers stuffing their pie holes as though each bite were their last. A lot more women than men for some reason.

Bustling southern belles, often strutting about in provocatively dressed gaggles. Decked out in impractically fancy footwear, snug skirts, and dipping necklines, they prattled together, shooting any passing male come-hither looks and giggling like naughty schoolgirls around dainty bites of breakfast takeout.

Sam had never craved the security of his boring job in the nice, safe offices of Chandler Accounting Services more in his life, away from all the boner-inducing chaos of the outside world.

He would get in before anyone else, have a quick emergency wank in the bathroom to calm the restless beast in his pants, then get a headstart on the budget reports.

Those plans were immediately derailed when he stepped off the elevator and found his boss, Sadie, waiting by the frosted glass door, wearing an eye-catching new outfit with a gleam of intent sparkling in her sable eyes.

"Ah, Samuel, you're early. Good. I am pleased to see you showing some initiative at last."

A form-fitting skirt suit in a black and white geometric print complimented her mature body wonderfully. The slim-fitting blazer and short-cut skirt hugged her toned figure with no visible shirt or blouse underneath. Only a single silver button above her bared navel prevented the slim-cut jacket from bursting apart, revealing all the supple goodness it struggled to contain.

Yesterday's leather knee-high boots were making an encore appearance, and her rich burgundy hair was tied in a low, messy bun with runaway bangs spiraling down to frame her regal face. But it was the intensity of that stare emanating from behind her wire-rimmed spectacles that slowed Sam's steps.

"Um... hi, Miss Chandler. I--I didn't realize you would be here."

His words stammered as she prowled towards him. Silky legs crossed in front of each other with each sauntered step, adding a further sway to her firm hips. She was holding something in her small fist.

"Never mind that." She sniffed, flicking her fiery hair back with a toss of her head. "Put down the food and show me your hands."

There was a hard edge to her voice. It was a command. A rare thing from the usually friendly office manager. Sadie had always been more carrot than stick. A kindly, welcoming presence in the workplace.

Dithering for only a second, Sam balanced the coffee and takeout on a vacant side table and held his palms out for inspection. She moved in close--too close--then squirted something cold onto his clammy mitts.

It smelled of alcohol.

"I am very disappointed that you didn't wear a facemask on your morning commute today, Samuel." Sadie said sternly, gently rubbing the sanitizer in with her fingertips. Her long nails were painted a crimson shade of red and tickled his skin. "We all need to be responsible for our health and safety in these difficult times."

"I--I'm sorry, Miss Chandler. They make it tough to breathe, and the elastic irritates my ears."

Her delicate fingers tangled with his own as she spread the clear gel between them and brushed her thumb over the ridges of his knuckles. Sadie held his hands in hers and used that grip to spread them out to either side and slid in closer.

"That's no excuse." She growled, pressing her soft chest against his sweater and slipping a smooth thigh between Sam's legs, incidentally brushing the bulge in his khaki trousers. It pulsed at her sudden nearness. "I run a tight ship, Samuel, and expect my staff to do as they are told. No more kid gloves. I won't abide slackers in my office. Especially not during such a crucial business period. Do you understand?"

Even in heels, Sadie was not a tall woman.

Sam wasn't much in the height department either, but with the way she pushed herself into him--haughty chin raised, slender shoulders back--he found himself looking straight down into her out-thrust tits. Two succulent mounds bubbled up to form a deep valley of tanned flesh between the lapels of her jacket.

"I understand, Miss Chandler." He croaked, catching himself and snapping his wandering gaze away. The ceiling was of immediate interest. "I'll start wearing a mask to work, I swear."

Sadie gave him a knowing smirk and tugged their joined hands around to rest on the small of her back, only an inch above the swell of her tight rear end, and leaned in heavily. Sam caught a noseful of her fragrant perfume and gasped as she ground her sleek pelvis against the thick protrusion in his trousers.

"Mmhmm... Good boy, You've always been such a diligent and dutiful employee." She purred, warm breath washing across his chin, smelling of peppermint mouthwash. His overactive cock bucked within its restraints. "Perhaps I should drag you into my office for a long... hard... rigorous review of your performance this quarter. Just say 'Yes, Miss Chandler.'"

Sam was frozen by confusion and indecision.

The intellectual half of him was crying out in protest at the power imbalance of this situation. His boss was leveraging her position of authority to make unreasonable sexual demands of him. This was textbook harassment!

The other half of him--the lower half, in fact--was erect as a signpost, eager for blood and thundering like a second heartbeat below his beltline. That not-insignificant part wanted to signal the charge, fuck off his V-card, and tear up some sexy MILF puss.

"Ye--Yes, Miss Chandler." Sam groaned as his bellicose balls grumbled like an angry mob.

"That's what I like to hear," Sadie whispered, nipping at his ear with her teeth. "Maintain that... cooperative attitude, and you will go far, Samuel."

With one last sniff of his neck, she finally relented and pulled away, glowing with smug satisfaction. Sam was left hanging. A shaking cocktail of anxiety and desire. His dick was a railroad spike wrestling with the inseam of his pant leg.

Unable to form coherent words, he just nodded dumbly as she held the office door open for him, smiling like a cat in a cage full of canaries. That emergency retreat to the men's room loomed large in his very near future.

What a fucking day it was shaping up to be already...

He really shouldn't have been surprised at the smart smack on the butt Sadie delivered on the way in.

________________

"I see you decided to let your tramp flag fly free today, Sassy Pants."

"Seriously? Have you looked in a mirror, Tam, or did you sleepwalk through a Hot Topic last night?"

Zoey peeked up over the wall of steel cabinets to see what all the kerfuffle was about. It was way too early for the daily snark-fest to begin, and she had problems of her own to deal with.

Like the dilemma with her shrinking wardrobe and an aching itch in her girlhood, she couldn't seem to scratch.

It was Tammy and Claire, of course. It was always them sniping at each other over the morning java. But when she adjusted her blocky glasses and blinked the bickering pair into focus, the shy brunette had to cover a gasp.

Sadie didn't hold to a strict business dress code in the office, but the two senior accountants were definitely toeing what ephemeral line there was.

Claire was flashing an inordinate amount of skin by Zoey's estimation. Snow white leggings with a silver strip running up the sides clung to her bulky hips and thighs, and a pink crop top showed off her paunchy mid-riff dangled loosely off one shoulder. The shirt looked three sizes too small, with the word "ANGEL" sprayed over her large bosom, the glittering silver letters distorting as they were stretched thin.

A little black half-jacket hung from the back of Claire's swivel chair, and a small magenta purse hung from a fine chain. Zoey supposed they counted as concessions towards modesty, however slight those might be.

"Did they laugh you straight out of Forever Twenty-One?" Tammy was standing with fists planted on her desk to spit venom at her coworker. Lips painted the color of ripe plums, with plenty of eyeliner and mascara darkening her glare. "Sorry to break it to you, Princess, but those days and dress sizes are far behind you."

"At least I have a dress size! Stop projecting your flat-chested insecurities on me and go back to padding your bra, you skinny punk wanna-be."

Ouch, shots fired. Claire wasn't pulling any punches, matching her frenemy's aggressive posture and viscous energy. Zoey's eyes strafed back to Tammy like a spectator at the Wimbledon Open.

The petite Asian's tastes in office attire had also skewed somewhat overnight, though more towards a grunge concert theme.

A short pleated skirt was slung about her narrow hips, gray and scarlet tartan hanging from a broad belt of dark studded leather. A black tank top--advertising some obscure indie band and fashionably torn in strategic places--snuggled her trim torso with fishnet sleeves emerging from the shoulders to run down to the spiked cuffs on her wrists.

Black canvas hi-tops propped up on white rubber platform soles gave Tammy three extra inches of added altitude from which to rain down her derision, and the onyx gemstone collar around her slender throat did little choke off her shrill reply.

"Padded? Padded?!" She shrieked, jabbing both thumbs back towards the burgeoning bumps on her chest. "I'll have you know that some of us are late bloomers. Not everyone was born a fat-titted cow!"

Zoey cowered behind cover as the two prepared to leap across their desks and start tearing out each other's hair. She nearly jumped out of her skin when the door to the men's bathroom suddenly crashed open...

"Enough! For fucks sake, give it a rest, why don't you. Can't a man get a moment's peace in this place?"

Sam strode out, his sandy hair touseled, appearing larger than life in an uncharacteristic fit of frustration. Every head turned to him. Claire's strawberry lips formed a perfect 'O' shape in a face so heavily made up she could be mistaken for the laughing clown game at a carnival.

The junior accountant looked ragged. Unkempt. His untucked shirt tails stuck out the bottom of his sweater vest, and the top three buttons were undone. The chino trousers he regularly wore creaked at the seams as he strode forcefully across the room, molding to his muscular legs and rump as though they had shrunk in the wash.

Zoey could relate. She was experiencing similar wardrobe concerns.

"Here. These should help." Sam said, picking up a stack of four archive boxes packed with tax documents awaiting filing. "If you two can't behave like professionals when facing each other, then you'll have to be separated."

Plunking them down in the gap between Tammy and Claire's desks, he turned around and made the short march back for another armload. There was no lack of building material for the muttering young man as he deftly constructed a partition wall of cardboard and paperwork a Republican would be proud of.

The two combatants gaped, and Zoey squirmed at the sight of him handling so much weight without any sign of exertion. A full archive box weighed over forty pounds. She could lift one at a time, and Sadie had purchased a special trolley to wheel them through the labyrinth of filing cabinets.

Sam was tossing them about as though they were stuffed with styrofoam peanuts...

Zoey crouched down in her hiding place until only her wide agate eyes and forehead were visible, fumbling at her frumpy skirts with both hands. Impatient to sink curling digits into her needy cunt as Sam bent and flexed muscles she hadn't realized were there, his wrinkled shirt and khaki slacks pulling taut across a hitherto unseen physique.

She had to bite down on her bottom lip to hold in a guttural moan when her questing fingers found her sodden entrance and plunged in with instantaneous results.

"Mmmnfff~..."

Claire and Tammy stood similarly spellbound as the surprise beefcake built higher and higher until he was deadlifting over a hundred and twenty pounds of boxed-up hard copy above his head to slot the final row of improvised bricks into place.

"There. Done. Fuck me, but I built a goddamn wall." Sam remarked, stepping back to inspect his handiwork before turning to one gawping workmate and then the other. "Tammy... Claire, you both look great. Okay? There's no need for the constant fighting. It stresses everyone out, and nobody needs that noise, right?"

"Yes, Sam." They said in unison, preening under the male attention and toying flirtily with strands of their glossy hair.

Claire's shiny tresses looked closer to a golden hue than the liquid toffee color of yesterday, and Tammy had streaks of firetruck red bleeding into her midnight ends.

"Yaaaass, Sam..." Zoey groaned under her heaving breaths, buzzing like a hummingbird as she rode her first endorphin high and chased the next like a clit-diddling addict.

"I bet you're both hungry. That's it, isn't it? Hungry plus angry equals hangry. We've all been there. Hate to see it." Sam continued, sounding pleased with his assessment. "Well, there's a bag full of sausage and egg biscuits, and plenty of hash browns beside the coffee station."

He gestured towards the tiny kitchenette nook that contained a stainless steel sink, a yellowing plastic coffee maker from the late nineties, and the aforementioned paper bag of congealing fast food.

"So help yourselves, but no more bickering." He wagged an admonishing finger at the two senior accountants. "You're friends now, you hear? We all have to get along and knuckle down. There's a lot of work that needs doing."

"Yes, Sam." They intoned again, with notably less primping and a lot more resignation.

"Good. If anyone needs me, I'll be in my office--I mean, the bathroom. I'll be in the men's bathroom... for a little while yet."

Lounging unnoticed in her office doorway, Sadie broke into a golf clap, smiling knowingly as her sable stare burned holes into Sam's back.

________________

"Sam, are you still in here?"

Zoey's voice quavered as she stuck her head around the restroom door.

The place stank of cheap disinfectant, sweat, and a scent she couldn't quite place. Salty and ripe on the nose. She took in a deep whiff, and saliva flooded her mouth.

"Ugh! Fuck... Zoey, is that you? Kinda, uh... kinda in the middle of something right now."

There was a wet, rhythmic noise coming from the only stall. A fast, fleshy slapping. She slipped inside the bathroom and eased the door shut behind her.

"I wanted to talk to you, Sam. I need to talk to someone." She murmured sotto voce. "Something is happening to me--to all of us, and everybody is too scared to talk about it."

She crept closer to the source of the odd sound and smell, giving the cracked urinal as wide a birth in the cramped confines.

"Now... shit! Does it have to be... now? Wait, gimme five minutes--"

"I've been waiting, Sam, and I think you have too." Zoey breathed, trembling with warring feelings of anxiety and pressing curiosity. The atmosphere felt close and muggy. "You're the only person--the only guy I think I could trust to help me."