Act A: The Photograph
“Do you remember that photo?”
Of course she did. She remembered it the very second the question started to fall from his mouth, just as she did every time he mentioned it. It’s the photo they don’t show anyone. The one they both love, but can’t post on social media. It’s a really insignificant photo when you just glance at it, a couple of friends at a table in a club, casually enjoying a drink. And it is just that: a casual, insignificant photo of two friends and work colleagues … but it’s also not.
If you take a closer look at that girl in the black and white dress you’ll see a look on her face that pretty much tells you how the rest of the night is going to go. It’s an undeniable look that requires no explanation. A look of hunger and playful impatience. She’s biting the side of her bottom lip, big eyes staring right into the camera, the expression of almost-guilt unmistakable. Her face is slightly squashed against the face of the male friend sat next to her on the couch, their cheeks mashed together in the best pose they could manage before the bright flash of the camera captured it forever. If you were to hazard a guess, you’d probably say that the cameraman had interrupted a private little moment — and he had. Rewind back just a few seconds and you’d see that girl shouting something fairly obscene in her friend’s ear, trying to make herself heard over the loud music and chants of drunken people all around them, but still be discreet, all at the same time.
Her friend and co-worker’s face is just as expressive. Let’s call him Travis. She’d just told Travis what she was going to do to him when she took him back to her house and a bold, beaming smile crept across his face. It’s what the cameraman caught in that image — the face of a man who’d just learned he was finally getting to fuck the girl he’d reluctantly lusted after for three years. The chemistry between the two had been there all along, right from day one, even though he’d tried his hardest to hate her as much as he said he did. As soon as she awkwardly introduced herself to him on the first day of work, she knew there was something there. They both did. A little sizzle, of sorts, and it just got hotter when she learned that he was above her in the chain of command. She always did have a little thing about men in authority.
Ironically, it had been the man above both of them in the chain of command that she’d originally lusted after that night, on that work night out. The Big Boss. She’d twirled in her black and white, well-fitted dress in the bedroom mirror before leaving the house, imagining the Big Boss grazing his hand under the hem of the floaty fabric and over the skin of her bare leg. She shuddered at the very thought of it. After a few drinks and a few more dances, however, things changed. The Big Boss wasn’t on her mind at all. It was him — Travis — that grabbed her attention and then didn’t let go. But that’s what she was like when she started drinking: a silly idea would pop into her head and then she’d stop at nothing to make it real life. And on that night, in that club, her bright idea was to fuck him. So, she stopped at nothing to make it happen.
That photo is a visual representation of two friends realising they’re about to cross a line. What you don’t see, what you can’t see, is that the arm he’s got behind her back is grabbing the top of her ass cheek through the layers of the skirt’s material. What you also can’t see is her hand under the table, gliding up and down his leg, scratching the denim with the tip of her pointed, black nails hard occasionally to make sure he knows FOR SURE what he’s about to get.
Her other arm, the one you can see, is grabbing a beer. She’s going to finish her drink off, down whatever was left in the bottle, not just because she hated to waste beer (although definitely that), but also as a last-minute effort to top up the Dutch courage tank. As much as she was drunk enough to bravely make a dumb decision, the thought of actually doing what she wanted to do to him made her a little nervous. Not that she’d let him know that, obviously. They both knew how it would go. It would go how it always went, how it would always go: it would be in her hands. She decided everything — when he’d get to fuck her for the first time, how long they’d wait before they left the club, what they’d do when they were in her bed …
He was her boss at work, and also sometimes in their friendship — but in her bed, she was the one in charge.
She wasn’t usually that dominant with other men, classing herself well and truly as submissive, but she knew she’d need to take control of the situation with him. He’d made no attempt to mask how sexually inexperienced he felt he was throughout their friendship, even jokingly asking her if she would teach him a thing or two. Everyone knew it wasn’t really a joke, though. She knew it was a real request. He knew that she it. Everyone they worked with and socialised with knew it, too. Even her now ex-boyfriend knew it — and that now ex-boyfriend was the reason she was there at the club, getting drunk and taking her frustrations out on a poor, unsuspecting friend and work colleague. She needed to fuck the hurt of yet another breakup away with someone she trusted and cared for, but who wouldn’t want more. That made Travis perfect. They’d managed to keep a lid on their sexual chemistry for almost three years, plus they worked together and he was almost always totally professional. She was sure he wouldn’t pose a problem afterwards.
She also chose him because he’d mentioned once or twice, during other drunken nights, that he wanted nothing more than to experience a little bit of what he’d overheard her talking about with female coworkers. She knew it would work wonders for her confidence, and that’s just what she needed during her breakup time of need. She needed someone to tell her that she was the best they’d ever had, and that they couldn’t get enough of her, and that they wanted more and more.
So, in that club, on that couch, just a little more than drunk, she half-whispered, half-shouted something into his ear:
“I would like to take you home and fuck you now, please.”
*FLASH*
They were interrupted by the flash of a camera, one of their other work colleagues drunkenly lurching towards the table and slightly bumping the glasses on top.
“Sorry, guys. Private moment?” he laughed, and they laughed right back with him. He soon moved on and continued enjoying the night, and that’s when she took Travis’ hand and, without a word, led him to the exit of the club.
[*****]
This is a previously unseen prequel post to Number 46.
