Erica is facedown on the floor of her office and I’m kneading the muscles in her lower back when her boss walks in. I’ve never met the woman who rules Erica’s days, but I know it’s her from hearing Erica’s description at the dinner table every night: pin-pointy click-click heels with peek-a-boo toes. Six miles of stockinged legs, shimmering black roads, leading up to the hemline of a short grey skirt.
Erica can’t see her boss – she’s got her head turned away from the door, facing my knees and the side of her desk. But the way her back bunches beneath my fingers tells me that she knows exactly who just walked into her office.
I feel like we’ve been busted, even though technically, we aren’t doing anything wrong. It feels like the automatic guilt associated with when a person spots a cop in the rearview mirror. It’s Erica’s lunch hour, and she’s asked me to stop over and ease a kink in her back. Of course, the guilty feelings are complicated by the fact that I’m her girlfriend. But I don’t know if her boss even knows that.
Erica’s boss – I wrack my memory for her name but can only find the words that Erica spits out during dinner – Bitch! Tyrant! –taps one pointy toe against the half-open door. She swings her head down and I catch a glimpse of green eyes and thin, merlot-colored lips. I can imagine what she sees: me with my jeaned knees pressed against Erica’s side, my muscular arms working her bare back. What else she sees: Erica’s T-shirt pulled up to her bra line. Her stretchy skirt pulled down far enough to show the edges of her pink thong and the top three petals of the daisy tattoo on her ass.
The woman doesn’t say anything. Just stands and looks. Her calves are thin and tight, and I have a sudden urge to reach out and massage them, to pull the pinch out of the muscles and let them relax. Maybe then she’d relax too. Not to mention Erica. Not to mention me.
Erica doesn’t say anything either – that’s the massage rule, no talking – but her muscles flex and release beneath my palms.
“Try to relax,” I say. But it’s too late. A half hour’s worth of massage therapy ruined. So much for my big plan: Get the kinks out at work, so that when she comes home, she’ll be in a good mood, maybe ready to play…something that hasn’t happened much since Erica got promoted two months ago, and since this long-legged woman became her nemesis.
Miss Longlegs steps toward us, lets the door swing shut behind her with a click. Beneath my fingers, Erica’s panicked muscles scramble to push her upward, but I’m afraid she’ll pull something, so I keep my palms there against the knot. I’m strong, she’s not going anywhere. Erica squeaks beneath me, something about explaining, but I’m not letting her get much air in.
Erica’s boss is close enough now that I can see the expensive wool of her skirt and the barely-there lace just under the hem, along with a flash of pale thigh. I have a sudden urge to laugh – I’ve seen copies of the fishing magazine that she and Erica work on, and she seems just a bit overdressed for pictures of large, dead fish and a tagline that reads Kiss My Bass.
Miss Longlegs crosses her thin arms just beneath her breasts. The movement causes her jacket to fall away just a little and exposes the flat edge of her stomach between her skirt and top. Something shiny glints in her belly button, but I can’t imagine it’s real; I can’t picture this woman entering something as “seedy” as a piercing studio.
Miss Longlegs moves those green eyes from mine to the floor, where she addresses the back of Erica’s head. “I suppose you’re doing this on company time, Miss Jacobs?” Her voice is just as pinched as her calves. I don’t know how you massage the cramp out of someone’s voice, but this woman sure needs it.
I feel like I have to rescue Erica, especially if I’m not going to let her up to make her own explanations.
“Actually,” I say, turning my head a little so I’m not talking directly to the black lace on this woman’s thigh highs. “Instead of taking lunch, Erica asked me to come in and work on her back a little.”
Miss Longlegs doesn’t say anything. Just keeps standing there, practically on top of me. Arms criss-crossed beneath her breasts. My grip on Erica’s muscles is loosening.
“I’m a massage therapist,” I add. It sounds so damn lame, but I can’t help it. The woman makes me nervous, even though she can’t be more than 100 pounds soaking wet. I’m starting to get an idea of what has been making Erica so crazy.
“I see,” Miss Longlegs says. She steps over Erica’s legs, brushing past me so close I can hear the swish of her skirt against her thigh-highs. And then she’s behind me and I can only hear the muted click-click heels against the carpet.
Erica inhales audibly. The daisy on her butt twitches a couple of times as she clenches her muscles.
From behind me, I hear the turn and swivel of Erica’s desk chair. The sweep of fingers over fake leather and then that pinched voice. “So, is it the chair that’s been causing you problems, Miss Jacobs? This very expensive ergonomic chair?”
Erica’s cheeks flush pale pink beneath her blonde hair. The tops of her pierced ears too, and I know if I were to touch them, they’d be hot. I keep my hands on Erica’s back, but don’t press down. She isn’t straining to get up anymore and I let up the pressure a little so she can speak if she wants to. She does.
“I don’t know,” Erica says. “I’ve just had this kink in my back all day. I was hoping Amanda could knock it out on my lunch break and I’d be good to go.” Erica spits all the words out and then inhales fast after. ??
The squeak of the chair and the slide of Miss Longleg’s wool skirt into the seat. Erica’s blue eyes show a little more white at the sound. I’m tempted to turn my head and see what this woman is doing to make Erica’s eyes look like that, but I don’t want to give Miss Longlegs the satisfaction of thinking she has control over both of us. The chair squeaks closer to my head. Her voice is near my ear. “Amanda, is it?” she says. She’s not talking to me, but I swear I can feel those hard green eyes sweeping over my back. “And where did you find Amanda the masseuse, Miss Jacobs?”
I can almost hear Erica’s inhale. “She’s my partner,” she says.
This is just getting better and better. The roll of wheels over carpet. A squeak.
“I see. And does your partner work on other women? Or is this an exclusive partner-client privilege?”
Suddenly I’m no longer in the room.
“No,” Erica says. “She has an office a few blocks from here.”
“How convenient.”
There is silence after. I try to catch Erica’s eyes but she’s still staring beyond me.
I find my voice, finally. “We’re done here anyway,” I say. We’re not, but I don’t know what else to do. I grab the fabric of Erica’s T-shirt and start to pull it back down over her back. And then something presses down on my shoulder. The tip of a black shoe. Shiny, with just a peek-a-boo of stocking-clad toes between the leather.
“Oh, please,” says the voice behind me, almost on top of me now. “It’s important to me that my employees feel physically good enough to do their jobs. Don’t let me interrupt.”
I don’t mention that she’s already interrupted. Her shoe against my shoulder presses harder than I would have guessed with those thin calves of hers were capable. I’m not sure what to do. There’s no way I’m going to get Erica to relax again with her boss in the room.
Erica looks at me, wide-eyed, and gives me something of a nod, which is really just her cheek rubbing up and down on the carpet. I lean over her and start rubbing the muscles on either side of her spine. Miss Longlegs keeps the toe of her shoe pressed down on my shoulder. I try to concentrate on the muscles beneath my fingers, but all I can do is try to figure out how to diffuse the tension that’s filling the room. Erica needs this job.
Behind me, I can hear the chair squeak just a little, the slide of fabric against leather. The scent of “I’m too good for you” perfume mixed with a natural musk hits my nose. And that’s when I realize what’s happening.
I’ve had people tell me that they get off on my massage technique, Erica included. But this is Erica’s boss and, holy shit, I have no idea what the hell is going on. I look to Erica for help, but her eyes are closed. Her lips are parted just a little bit, as though she might be sleeping. But the pink flush across her cheeks and the quick puffs of breath say otherwise. So all that tension between them…not just boss and employee tension after all.
I feel stupid for not having seen it earlier – the way Erica rails against this woman so vehemently. The way this woman is driving Erica mad. It’s like two infatuated schoolgirls pulling each other’s pigtails. I watch Erica’s face for another second, just to make sure. Her lips part a little farther. Her breath speeds up. Beneath my hands, her muscles soften a little.
I make a quick decision. Maybe there is a way to get the kinks out after all. I keep working the softening muscles in Erica back, further and further down until I’m just at the top of her thong. I slide my hand over the fabric, over the daisy tattoo, beneath the waistband of Erica’s skirt. I pull the skirt down a little farther, to show the whole daisy, then start massaging her ass. Miss Longlegs inhales quick and sharp like she’s sucking down a stolen cigarette. The shoe on my shoulder presses me further toward the ground.
Erica lifts her butt up just a little beneath my fingers and she slides one hand beneath her. With my hands still on Erica’s ass, I start rocking her back and forth. Erica’s breath comes fast and quick now, her muscles tightening, but this time in a good way. I keep rocking her back and forth, from side to side, letting her body do the work. My own thighs are cramping from being down on my knees, from the pressure of Miss Longleg’s foot on my shoulder, but I don’t really care. My clit tingles from the intensity of what’s happening – Erica rocking on the carpet over her hand, knowing that behind me her boss is spread-eagle on Erica’s chair, and probably wearing nothing under her skirt above her thigh highs. I can practically feel the heat coming from between the woman’s legs.
I plant my palms against Erica’s ass cheeks and rock her harder, faster; I press her down into the carpet the way I’m being pressed down. Erica breathes fast. Her boss too. Erica gasps the way she does when she’s close to coming—her mouth open, closed, open, closed, a fish that can’t get enough oxygen. It’s all I can do to keep my hands on her. My own clit is booming in my jeans, a drum without a drummer.
Then Erica half-opens those blue, blue eyes and looks right at me. “Yes,” she says. It’s a plea.
“Yes,” says the voice behind me. It’s a command.
I rock Erica with one hand on her ass, and lean forward to slide my other hand around until it’s underneath her, until it touches her hand at her clit. I press her fingers into her clit, loving the way she wiggles on our hands together, pushing her body down until she hits the right spot.
Behind me, the unmistakable sound of wet clit beneath fingers. That near-perfect sound when everything is just wet enough and fast enough and hard enough. And then Miss Longlegs gives a soft sigh. I know Erica hears it because it sends her over the edge.
“Yes,” Erica says again, only this time it’s moan and whisper all rolled into one. She wiggles like a fish on our hands, and then, she’s still. Silent. Her eyes closed, her lips too.
I take my hand from beneath Erica and pull up the waist of her skirt. I stay on my knees, facing Erica’s back. The office smells like lilacs and seawater. There is a strange silence as the world comes crashing back – what do I say now? I’m not about to stand and shake this woman’s hand. Introduce myself. Beg her not to fire Erica.
Surprisingly, it’s Miss Longlegs who gets it right. The chair rolls away, back behind Erica’s desk where it belongs. The sounds of leather being wiped, cloth re-draped around thin hips. Those long legs step up to me and over Erica’s legs. The scent of crushed lilacs grows stronger as she passes. Then her voice, sweeter, softer now; all of the kinks worked out.
“You know, Miss Jacobs, you’re right. That chair really is uncomfortable.”
Her hand is on the doorknob, pulling it open. “It bothers my back a bit too. Why don’t you let me know next time you do a massage lunch? I just may join you.”
And then the door closes behind her with a click. And there is just the muffled sound of those heels click-clicking away, and our own ragged breathing filling the room.
Originally published September, 2008