Terry's Last Day At Work

Terry Pellegrin had been well liked at Latham Construction Supplies, and the proof of that was the boss had approved a farewell lunch in his honor. Bertie Latham would have had to come down from Dallas to process his exit anyway, but if he had left on anything less than good terms, Bertie would not have fed him.

They ate at a Teppanyaki restaurant near the warehouse. Present at the gathering besides himself, Bertie Latham, and the outside salesman, Sidonie Taulbe, was a woman named Jolene Bascom, who was going to be doing his job on Monday, Sidonie’s husband, Gavin, and some suppliers’ reps. Sidonie had put the word out and they had come bearing gifts. Terry now had more Pavecrete and Patchcrete caps, a Master Builders polo shirt, a Sonneborn T-shirt in its signature eye-riveting orange that guaranteed visibility in even the thickest fog, and more little push-out utility knives which Terry would have had a problem carrying home if he were going to fly instead of drive.

“So, Jolene, you looking forward to taking over on Monday?” Sidonie asked the new inside salesperson.

Jolene reached up and tightened her ponytail. “Of course I am,” she said. “Except for having to sit in your crummy chair, Terry. How did you stand it? It squeaks. And it tilts—not in a good way. I feel like I’m going to be dumped on the floor. Sidonie, is there any way I could get another?”

“For once, the person to ask is sitting right there in front of you,” Sidonie said, tilting her head toward Latham. “How about it, Bertie?”

Bertie tended to look like a Basset hound, and his expression was one to accentuate the resemblance. “I suppose something could be done,” he said

Sidonie said something sotto voce to Jolene, and the two women laughed uproariously.

“What did you say?” Latham asked suspiciously.

The Master Builders rep, who had deaf people in his family and knew how to read lips, said, “I think she was saying that you looked like you were going to have to give birth to that new chair,” he said. Latham managed a chuckle at the joke made at his expense.

They had finished their meal several minutes before. They hung around finishing another little bottle of warm sake. They could tell the restaurant staff wished them gone so they could fill up the table again, so the party broke up and went out into the parking lot.

“If I take off now and drive like hell,” Latham said, “Maybe I’ll make it back home at a decent hour. Terry, it was great working with you. If I ever expand into your home state, I’m definitely going to get in touch with you. Jolene, again welcome aboard. You and Sid call me next week if you need to.” The boss got into his car and left. The suppliers’ reps did, too. Gavin, who worked for one of the local cable companies and had met up with the group driving a company truck, told his wife he’d see her later. She gave him a quick kiss and pressed something into his hand in a conspiratorial manner before he, too, left. She also drove a company truck—for Latham, of course. Terry had come with her, for convenience. It was a small truck, or Jolene would have come too.

Sidonie was wearing a wrap dress and expensive-looking high-heeled sandals that consisted mostly of straps and chains. Every time she worked the pedals of the truck her dress parted in front enough to reveal her long legs to halfway up her thighs. He watched through his lashes as she drove, hoping it would ride up some more.

He’d been watching her all day.

He had worked with her for almost four years and in all that time, he’d never seen her wearing anything except jeans and khakis and shirts. Always polo shirts, t-shirts, or man-tailored ones, and either athletic shoes or work boots. He supposed she hadn’t wanted to come across as girly when she was first hired, and he couldn’t blame her, considering he’d had his doubts, himself, about a woman in her position at the beginning. Latham had suffered a run of bad luck with its outside salesmen. The one before Sidonie had diverted $5,000 in revenues into his own pocket, and the one before that had been a drunk. Sidonie could have been merely honest and competent and she’d have been golden. She was all that and more, and she got along fine with the suppliers’ reps and all the building contractors and their subs that she had to do business with.

She was tall and athletically built, with a mane of chestnut hair, a strong-featured face that was handsome rather than pretty, and eyes the color of dirty ice—or the color of a wolf’s eyes. Terry had never asked her directly, but thought she must be around his mother’s age—more because of the things she remembered and knew about, than the way she looked. She was one of the few women her age that he knew who had not gotten her hair chopped off shorter than a guy’s.

One of the reps came up in the same small bedroom-to-Houston town she was from and had told Terry that while you might not believe it to look at her now, back in the day, she’d been some hot—and had told him a bunch of stories about her when she was younger that Terry, having been raised in a small town himself, had automatically assumed were exaggerations. How she’d been with a rock band during the late 60s and early 70s and carried on with two of the guys in it—identical twins—concurrently. The series of cops she’d sucked off to get out of traffic tickets, until the chief of police had put a stop to it, coercing her to put on some kind of live sex show for the whole station—one of the few things, it was said, that anybody had coerced her into. And there was supposed to be a short art film circulating around, even after all this time, that she’d been in while she was in college and which featured her doing nothing except eat an ice cream cone—but it had demonstrated abundantly why in some cultures women were forbidden to eat ice cream in public.

Terry was inclined to blow the accounts off. After all, small towns. The woman had grandkids—he’d met them. True, she didn’t look like anybody’s grandmother, but whose grandmother did? She did not have a bumper sticker on her car saying “Ask me about my grandchildren.” She never wore pastel sweatshirts with appliqués on them or noisy nylon warm-up suits. And there was just something about her—a smile that had to have been the difference more than once between making a sale and not making one. That lopsided, unaffected, almost doggy grin with her wide, full-lipped, sensual mouth could get a man to thinking—and it had, but she had always been completely correct with Terry and had never done anything to make him think she viewed him as anything more than a colleague. Well, there was her habit of sometimes ghosting into the building, as if she were trying to sneak up on him. He wondered if she knew about the collection of porn mags he used to keep in the bottom of one of his desk drawers. He had to have something to divert himself. In this job, when he didn’t have people coming in and out and trucks backing up to the loading dock, he could be as solitary as a lighthouse keeper. It sometimes worked on his nerves.

When they got back and reopened the building, there was not a lot for him to do; he had been in the process of helping to train Jolene, and she was growing into the job satisfactorily. A little while later, Jolene caught up with them, and they spent a quiet afternoon catching up on paperwork and answering the occasional query on the telephone. Someone dropped in and bought a case of silicon sealant and a gun. Sidonie stayed in the warehouse; she had arranged it so that she did not have to go out this afternoon. She said there was no way she was going to traipse around building sites in a dress and risk getting concrete on her Blahniks. Terry had been thinking of cutting out early. What could they do—fire him? But he decided that it would be more fun hanging around and looking at Sidonie and her amazing metamorphosis until it was time for him to go.

At 5:00, Jolene said, “Well, it’s that time. Terry, I enjoyed working with you. Hope you have a safe journey back to Louisiana.”

“Thanks, Jo. Hope you continue to like working here,” Terry said.

“I’m sure I will.” Jolene gave Terry a brief hug, picked up her purse and keys, and exited the building. Soon, her little Honda Civic could be heard driving off.

“It’s about time we did the same thing,” Terry said.

“Ah, there’s no rush,” Sidonie said. “I thought we’d hang here for a few more minutes before we got out into all the traffic. However, we can lock up.” She clicked across the cement floor and hauled down the big rolling door to the loading dock. Then she hung the closed sign on the outer door that led to the offices and locked it from the inside. She had never done this before, and Terry’s gut rumbled with both undigested Japanese food and a sense of shallow-breathing anticipation. She turned off the warehouse lights. The big interior of the building, lumpy with stacked pallets of concrete mix and barrels of sealants and solvents and a forklift, took on a mysterious, eerie appearance. A dim light from the high windows in back of the building silhouetted the big industrial fans set high up in the wall. It reminded Terry of one of these thriller type movies in which there was always a backlit, creaking industrial fan. The small offices, with their fluorescent lighting, seemed extraordinarily cheerful by contrast.

Sidonie turned off the light in her office and came into Terry’s. Terry had the office in the front of the building, and it was bigger than hers, probably because the outside salesman didn’t need a big office when he was going to be spending most of the time outside. It was furnished with a desk—and the squeaky chair that Jolene had complained of—a small credenza, two filing cabinets, a couple of straight-backed chairs with stuff on them and a dorm fridge under one of them. It had just room for two or three people to turn around in, if they were on very good terms with each other.

She sat down on Terry’s desk, with her long legs hanging in front of her. “Get me one of those little Cokes out of the fridge, won’t you?” she said. “I need a little something cold and wet. I still feel dry after that sake.” Terry leaned back and snagged one and handed it to her. She popped it open and sucked it down in one long pull. “Ah, that’s good.” She rummaged around in her handbag and took something out. Terry was surprised to see that it was a slender joint.

“Sid, I didn’t know you smoked that stuff now.” During her wild youth, of course, she would have—being in a rock band in the 60s and smoking dope went hand-in-hand. Still did, actually.

“I haven’t in years,” she said. “Gavin doesn’t, so I don’t. I don’t even have any connections now. I got this off my little brother.”

“He doesn’t mind if you smoke? Won’t he smell it on you?”

“It’s all right if I do it once in a blue moon. I just can’t expect him to join me. Damn, I can’t find a light—you got one?”

“Shit, Sid. I’m sorry. I quit smoking again, remember?”

“What a shame—not that you quit smoking; that’s great. However, what are we going to do about a light?” She got down off Terry’s desk and they looked through it until they came up with a half-used Dave & Buster matchbook. She lit up, took a deep drag, and passed it to Terry. They passed it back and forth a few times, and when it was halfway down, she reversed it in her mouth and leaned down to give him a supercharge. He inhaled the thick stream of gray smoke that flowed from between her lips. He thought that if she didn’t have that joint in her mouth, she was close enough to kiss…

She sat up, taking the doobie out of her mouth and pinching it in a pair of pliers for a clip. By this time, the rush had hit them both—Terry knew for sure that it had hit him, when he got that elastic, echoey sensation in his head. And his train of thought was continuing to chug down its predetermined track—those legs of hers were close enough for him to touch, and he’d never had occasion to notice what beautiful feet she had. They were long, slender, high-arched and well-kept, with perfectly proportioned toes with silver rings on some of them, and the pricey-looking shoes set them off admirably. He wondered what she’d do if he reached out and put his hand on her thigh. He hesitated to run the experiment—she had a reputation as a fighter as well as a lover, and the stiletto heels were uncomfortably close to his groin.

“Looks like weed does the same thing to you that it’s always done to me,” she said. The smoke had slightly roughened her voice.

“What’s that?”

Sidonie looked directly at Terry’s crotch and grinned. “Makes you horny,” she said. Terry looked down. Damn, he knew he’d been feeling that way, but he’d had no idea how much it was showing. Sure enough, he was making a tent in his pants and there was nothing he could do about it.

“God, Sid, sorry about that—it’s just that it always does that, and I’ve never seen you look so—“ He looked at her helplessly, feeling his face burn.

“Hey, don’t worry about it.” He started to reposition his dick so its condition wouldn’t be so obvious. “Don’t worry about that, either,” she said. “Stand up.”

He got to his feet. It seemed natural then to lean toward her, and she reached up, put her hand on the back of his neck, and pulled his head down to hers. Her parted lips met his; she slid a warm tongue into his mouth. She tasted of weed-smoke, slightly sweet with Coca-cola, and a hint of sake. Their kiss widened and deepened. He didn’t know why she was doing this, but he was going to take what he could get. He put an arm around her, pulling her off the desk, and fitted her to the front of his body, pushing his hard cock against her belly; he thrust his other hand into the opening of her dress, trying to get at her breasts. They were smallish and soft, but the nipples were hard, and when his fingers touched them, she made a noise in her throat and sucked his tongue deeper into her mouth. She wrapped her hand around his cock through his pants, molding the fabric around the shape of it. He broke the kiss. They looked at each other, panting. She turned the full power of her smile on him and went for his belt buckle.

“I’m not getting naked by myself,” he told her. She worked a fastening here and there on her dress, and it fell apart, sliding off her shoulders and onto his desk.

If he’d been wondering what sort of underwear she liked, it was no use speculating about it today.

He thought it didn’t even matter if she had some miles on her; there was nothing that looked as good as a long-legged naked woman in high heels. Her pussy hair was trimmed in three-quarters style. He had been aware of her scent all afternoon, and now realized that the bittersweet, sophisticated perfume she wore was only a part of it; the scent also included the steamy promise wafting from between her legs. He didn’t care if it was fifty years old; it smelled perfectly fresh to him…

He stripped quickly, piling his clothes on the credenza along with her dress, but as soon as he had his socks off he stepped back into his sneakers. With the pallets of concrete mix moving in and out of the warehouse all the time, keeping the place free of dust was like trying to sweep back the sea. It was no place to be barefoot in. In heels, Sidonie was almost as tall as he. She was soon all over him with hands and mouth, rubbing against him with the friendly, sensuous abandon of a cat, making approving noises and comments--mmm and yesyesyes and absolutely fucking prime…

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to see you like this,” she said, licking at the hollow of his throat. She nibbled at his pecs, trailing her tongue down to his left nipple. Her hot tongue flashed over it and when it sprang up, she sucked it in between her lips. Something like a jolt of electricity passed from his nipple to his cock.

“What’s the deal, Sid?” he said, putting the words together with a little difficulty. “I wouldn’t have thought I was your type.” He didn’t think he was an unattractive guy. He was about 6’3” and lanky, with red-brown hair and red-brown eyes and features just masculine enough to save him from prettiness. He looked no more like Sidonie’s short, chunky husband than a Saluki looks like a bull terrier.

“That’s all you know,” said Sidonie, and she switched to his other nipple. The resulting surge of feeling almost took his breath away. Her hands slid down his back and caressed his ass. “Me and Gavin—we go back a long way. If I’d had him as soon as I wanted, we’d have probably gotten married really young like a pair of hillbillies. But things get in the way—long story. He went out of my life for a while. You remind me a lot of the first guys I did have…”

She bent to tongue-bathe his belly, stirring up the sparse trail that ran southward of his navel. Her wavy chestnut hair swung forward, tickling his thighs. His cock jerked and twitched, getting tangled in her hair. She squatted in front of him, one hand gripping his ass for balance, and the other on his balls and the base of his dick. She put out her tongue and caught a drop of precum on the end of it; then she enveloped it softly and firmly in her mouth, her eyes half closed in pleasure. She hummed a low note, and he could feel it from the tip of his cock all the way down into his balls. He slid his hands into her hair and considered firming up his comfortable standing position, and letting that first, most intense load of cum fire down her throat…

“I can’t believe you’ve been commando the whole damn day,” he said. “If I’d known, I’d have wanted to be under the table. I’ll bet you taste as good as you smell.”

“Only one way to find out,” she said. She perched on the edge of his desk, leaning back comfortably, and he sat down before her, pushing her long, firm thighs apart. She draped her stiletto-clad feet over his back and he dove hungrily into the warm, salty welter of her cunt, licking the fresh juice from between her labia, running his tongue over and around her bullet-hard clitoris. “Ohhhh. Oh, Terry. That feels—oh! oh oh oh ohhhhhhhhhh--“ Sooner than he had anticipated, almost sooner than he wanted, she was gripping his head between her legs, rubbing her twitching, contracting vulva against his mouth. A gout of fresh juice hit his tongue. He could feel his cock throbbing and lurching in response. She opened her legs and he freed his head.

“Now.” Her voice was raw, elemental, still breathless. “Stick that pretty fuck-wand of yours in me. Fuck me now.”

Standing up so hastily he felt light-headed for a second, he pulled her hips a little further forward, and did as she told him to, positioning his cockhead at her opening and entering her with an almighty, ecstatic shove. “Unh!” she grunted as he bottomed. She was still contracting from the orgasm she had just had, and he willed himself to stillness inside her, not wanting to follow her too quickly. She grinned at him. “Whoa. Been a while since I had this much length to deal with.” She lay back on the desk, pushing aside a spike full of notes but deciding that the adding machine made an acceptable headrest. It was on and began to chatter and print a meaningless column of figures. Terry felt through her hair for the switch and turned it off. He widened his stance, his sneakers squeaking slightly on the linoleum, and leaned slightly over her. Her legs were strained over his upper arms.

“Damn, you feel good,” Sidonie said. She rocked her hips and gave him a squeeze. “Knock yourself out, honey.”

He gave himself to thrusting into her tight, slippery cylinder of flesh, experimenting with angles to see what new sensation he could experience himself and what reaction he could produce in her. He found an angle from which he could lunge into her uninhibitedly, putting his back into it. The little office became humid with the scent of her sex juices and their sweat; loud with the smack of their bodies meeting, their heavy breathing and grunts of effort and pleasure. She was bracing herself from being pushed into the wall behind the desk by gripping his forearms with a strength that he would have found uncomfortable had he not been caught up in scratching the delicious, dizzy itch in the core of his dick. Her face bore an absorbed, unseeing expression, and she tensed and tightened around him pneumatically.