S H I P Of Fools Ch 01

Chapter 01: Stacy

I smiled as I pushed open the heavy glass door to the open-air smoking courtyard, nodding my head towards one of the half-dozen plastic and steel tables crowding the patio space underneath the Plexiglas awning. There were maybe seven or eight of my coworkers taking up space on the benches or standing around the table, all friends of mine. As usual I'd arrived at work almost forty-five minutes early, but I worked a later shift and most of my friends had started almost two hours ago.

I strode up to the crowd, hamming it up for them with an exaggerated swagger that oozed testosterone. Almost everyone who worked the late shift here was the lovable pervert type, and among them I was known as the worst of them all. The Lech, they called me, and I bore the moniker with appropriate pride.

"Hellllo ladies," I crooned, digging into my pocket for my smokes. In a moment I'd slid a thin Marlboro Red between my lips, and with the assistance of a battered chrome Zippo™ windproof had set the end ablaze. I inhaled deeply, then blew out twin columns of pale gray from my nostrils.

They smiled and returned my greeting. 'Ladies' had been accurate, as with the exception of Ray, our token gay dude, everyone at the table was a woman. It was simply the nature of the work we did. I work for a huge national insurance claim processing firm, with the decidedly boring corporate conglomerate title of "Insurance Reactionary Services". The only advantage, of course, was the joke it implied. When asked, myself and everyone else employed here said they worked for the IRS. It was a long-standing joke and damn near a tradition among us night owls.

Mickey, a picturesque redhead in her early thirties, smiled broadly and chuckled. "I'm glad you made it in today, Ramzy. The LAN team came through today and updated everyone to NT Professional. With any luck, you might actually be able to log into the system."

I laughed, which actually proved to be pretty painful as I'd had a lungful of smoke at the time. Coughing, I purged my lungs and then shook my head ruefully. "So, you're saying we've been visited by the fuck-up fairy again, Mickey?"

"Hey, we'll have none of that poor morale out here, folks!" The voice cracked like a whip, directly behind me to boot. Our manager had come looking for her team, it would seem, and she'd found us. I whirled around, patently cheesy grin plastered across my tanned face.

"Whatever you say, Marcy. Do a little dance for us – that'll help my morale."

Normally, you'd assume such a comment would earn me a heavy-handed dismissal from any gainful employment. You'd assume that, but what you wouldn't know is that my boss is every bit as bad as the rest of us. You're starting to catch on – we're a rowdy bunch here at IRS. At least, swing shift is.

I wasn't kidding, either. For being halfway through her forties, my boss is damn fine. No shrinking violet this woman. She was an astounding six feet tall, which only exaggerated her long, shapely legs and generous rack. Piercing green eyes sat underneath neatly plucked eyebrows, complimenting a face with just the right dusting of freckles and full, pale lips. To complete the look, my boss maintained a luxurious man of dark auburn hair, which she usually wore in a simple ponytail. To put it lightly, I'd be sore pressed to imagine a better way to spend an evening than bouncing my boss off a mattress, despite her being almost twice my age. Of course, that wasn't going to happen as long as I worked for IRS. When it comes to pushing the limits of professionalism, we use a bulldozer around here for the purpose. But that particular push would be a bit more than even I was comfortable with, and both myself and Marcy were careful to make sure the opportunity never presented itself.

It's funny – people ask me what I do for a living, and I tell them I'm a data transcriber for an insurance agency. Invariably they imply that I work in a woman's industry. God damned right. The rest of my fellow men can spend eight hours a day surrounded by other sweaty men, installing HVAC systems or entertaining clients in a board room. Me, I spend my eight hours surrounded by gorgeous women in an air-conditioned, state-of-the-art processing center. And there are dozens of broom closets throughout this place, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I digress...

Marcy was lighting a smoke, and she laughed at my suggestion to dance for us. Then, as she tucked her Bic back into her pocket, her face grew serious.

"That reminds me though, Ramzy. I'm supposed to give you a message." Her gaze didn't waver, and I was suddenly attentive.

"What's up boss?" I lit another smoke, meeting her gaze straightwise. She curled a finger at me and stepped a few paces off from the group. Curious, I followed.

"I'm supposed to tell you that Stacy heard you last night." She said this quietly, as though she were concerned about being overheard. My brow knit in concentration for half a second while I puzzled over this, and then it hit me.

Stacy worked in a different department, but her and my boss were friends and she comes over a couple times a day to bullshit. Stacy is also an insane knockout. Long blonde hair highlighted with streaks of mahogany and a gorgeous face that frames almond-shaped eyes the color of polished malachite. I rarely use the word

svelte

, but Stacy deserved it. Voluptuous even. She's got curves like a '68 Shelby Cobra, and I've been dreaming of making her purr like one too for a couple of months now. Yesterday, she'd been wearing this floor-length jean skirt that you wouldn't believe. It stuck to her heart-shaped ass like it'd been applied with an airbrush, but in the front boasted a slit that went all the way up to

there

. Walking towards you, it flashed more than half her thigh from the knee up, and if you lost your grip on reality for an instant you might imagine you'd seen a shadow of something else.

Well, last night she'd walked past me towards the end of my shift, and I could remember the moment with perfect clarity. In time-honored lech fashion, I'd slowed down, turned my head all the way around, and muttered, "Goddaaaaamn..." under my breath. Apparently, it hadn't been far enough under my breath to keep my head above water, because she'd heard. This was gonna suck...

I curled my lip with resignation, and tucked my shoulders a bit. "Is she filing a complaint?"

"What'd you say to her?" Apparently Stacy hadn't told Marcy exactly what she'd heard, which boded ill.

"I think I just made an appreciate noise, you know, 'wow' or something. Maybe a groan...shit, I can't remember." I ran my fingers through my hair, racking my brain in search of something else I'd said that Stacy might've heard.

Just then, Marcy's face split into a wide smile and I knew I'd been had. Marcy laughed, "I'm kidding. At least, kidding about being serious. She

did

hear you, but she doesn't mind. In fact, she said it was a hell of a compliment. She was blushing when she told me about it."

I paused a moment to digest this bit of wonderful news. I was almost sure I'd preceded the "goddammmn" last night with a lusty groan of approval – the kind of sound us guys don't normally make if we think we're going to be overheard. If Stacy didn't mind that, had taken it as a compliment in fact, then maybe I'd wrongly pegged her as an innocent. That made enough sense, considering her and Marcy got along. My boss can make a trucker blush when she gets on a roll, done it a few times actually. I crushed my smoke underfoot, a small smile tugging at the corner of my lips. This was a favorable development.

* * *

Later that evening, we were all gathered around a different table for the same purpose when Stacy made an appearance. Her being a smoker was a relatively new development, or at least, smoking with us. I coolly checked her out from the corner of my eye as she approached our table, and as usual she was positively stunning.

She was wearing a blue dress that was maybe two clicks South of formal, the sort of thing a woman might wear if she were a guest at a pined-over ex-boyfriends wedding. A lovely expanse of leg was visible blow the hem, which strained to dust her knees but didn't quite make it. The top, which was fairly tight across her 36C tits, was that sort where one half tucks under the other. The kind that always shows a generous portion of one tit when you're looking from the proper angle. Open-toed sandals completed the outfit, and I saw with appreciation that her toes were French manicured.

Christ she was hott, with a double "T" even, and I spent a few cool points stumbling over the joke I was telling as she approached. To top it off I forgot the punch line just then, and since by now all my friends were in the know, they burst into uproarious laughter at my plight.

Stacy strode right up to me, red-painted lips teased into an odd half-smile. She produced a cigarette and tucked it between her lips, and I recovered my fumble smoothly by drawing my Zippo™ and striking it in one smooth motion.

Behind me, Katie cheered. "Nobody whips it out as fast as Ramzy!" Stacy's eyes popped open wide from behind the dancing flame of the lighter, and I could tell the comment had embarrassed her. Her cheeks instantly flushed red, and the tip of her smoke stalled out halfway through lighting.

I knew before I even said it that I was pushing my luck, but the manicured toes had done me in. I whispered so only she could hear, "Suck it, Stacy," and then I winked.

Stacy's face went so red that I nearly though the lighter was giving her a sunburn. This bombshell was game, though, and she bounced back swiftly. With a coy smile she muttered around the cigarette, "Sorry, it's kinda small...", then took a deep draw on the smoke that set the end glowing red.

Everyone laughed, though they'd only heard half the exchange. Stacy took a seat next to Laura, and I remembered my punch line with enough time to salvage the joke.

Laura piped up when I'd finished the joke, "That reminds me! Did I tell you guys that cute guy janitor shipped me today?!"

An explanation is in order. Here at Insurance Reactionary Services, we take sexual harassment very seriously. At least, upper management and dayshift stiffs do. We have a concept, sort of a paradigm, about sexual harassment, and it's called Sexual Harassment Intervention Policies. S.H.I.P. When we receive our yearly lecture on sexual harassment in the workplace, it's called S.H.I.P. training.

Here on nightshift, we've elevated the term to a multiuse phrase, sort of like Smurfs and their all-purpose word Smurf. If someone hits on you, you've been shipped. If you're flirting with someone, you're shipping them, or being ship. If you're wearing something that's a little risqué for the workplace, it's a ship outfit. That'll give you an idea how seriously we take S.H.I.P. on nightshift. There are a few prudes and dinosaurs that still stick by the concept, but most of us use it as fabulous joke material.

Laura was explaining to the group about how this janitor had accidentally brushed her ass with the handle of his mop, and when she'd burst into a giggle fit, he'd done it again less accidentally. Laura's as cute as a button, in that she's an old gal and barely five feet tall. She might have once had an hourglass figure, but with three kids, two grandkids, and 54 years, the sands of time have shifted. She's every bit as perverted as the rest of us though, and a day doesn't go by that she doesn't complain about her used-up husband and his crippledick, as she refers to his flaccidity. She's also a spazz, and there isn't much more in this world more entertaining than giving Laura a double-shot of espresso and a pinch on the ass. Just stand back afterwards, or cover yourself with a sheet of plastic like at a Ghallager show. The woman's crazy.

I was laughing with the rest of them when Stacy added her two cents. "I wanna be shipped!" She pouted with girlish enthusiasm, and a mischievous glint lit up those extraordinary opaline eyes. We all laughed at that, although I thought my own sounded a little forced. Treating Stacy to some of my own well-refined ship skills was the least of what I wanted to do to her, and I actually felt my face grow hot with the thoughts streaming though my head.

Stacy stamped out her smoke in the ashtray and stood. "I've got to get back in. Thanks for the light, Ramzy." She smiled at me, said goodbye to the table, and started towards the doors.

I wavered with indecision for half an instant, teetering on the edge of a precipice where I was altogether unsure of my footing. Here at IRS, I played the pervert role to the hilt, but most of it was all talk. Sure, I'd had a couple one-niters with the women at work – hell, sitting right at this table were two women I'd fucked in the last year. One more over on the other side of the atrium, although her and I didn't talk much anymore. If I opened this door with Stacy...

Hell with it. I called after her. "You wanna be shipped, huh?" I unfolded my legs from underneath me and slid off the edge of the table, where I'd been sitting. Benches were for tired people. Behind me, one of the girls – Katie, I think – gasped with anticipation. A low, expectant hush fell over them.

Stacy turned smoothly on one heel, then advanced two small steps towards me. She looked me up and down, and that was a good thing. I've got an addiction to healthy food, and a fondness for hiking and upland hunting keeps me trim. I also lift weights on the weekends, and although I'm by no means ripped, there's a lot of definition in my frame. I was wearing my usual ensemble today, baggy jean shorts with hiking boots and a cotton tee, and I knew my biceps filled out the short sleeves of the shirt nicely. I was also still wearing my sunglasses. It was late enough at night that I didn't need them anywhere else, but here in the smoking courtyard they used these brilliant xenon flood lights for illumination. They threw the atrium into a dramatic division of sharp light and shadow, and the eye strain was a bit much for a guy who spends eight hours a day in front of a computer terminal.

Stacy approached one more step, then lilted her head to one side and tousled her hair with one hand. It was sexy as hell, and I found I was hanging on her response. "Yeah. You up to it?" She sounded confident, but I caught her worrying her bottom lip for a scant instant after the bold query.

"I'm something of a professional..." I said, shifting my weight to my forward leg and starting towards her slowly. I threw so much swagger into my walk that I seriously expected "The Regulators" to start playing in the background.

"Do your worst." She very nearly took a step back as I closed, but then held her ground.

I came right up next to her, slightly to her left side. I turned my head pointedly and tilted my chin, then peeled my sunglasses off with a snap. With a smile, I made a big show of looking her up, then down, then up again, and I could tell from the way her breath caught in her throat that she wasn't used to such an obvious once-over. Man, but she was fine! When her breath caught it made her whole body quiver for half a second, and the way that smooth, supple flesh shook underneath her top made me more than half crazy. I was at the right angle to take advantage of the exposing top too, and the top of her right tit was in plain site where the top panel fell away. It's curve was lovely, the swell impressive, and I found myself wondering how the balance of that mound would feel in my palm. Never mind my earlier estimate, they were easily D cups.

I paused half a moment, looking her straight in the eyes, and then said huskily, "You know you make my

tongue

hard?"

That did it. I saw the confusion in her eyes for just a moment, while she put two and two together and muddled through the symbolism of my comment. It might have taken a full second and a half to fully germinate in her imagination, but when it hit the effect was impressive. Her eyes flew open wide and she blinked furiously, mouth half open and her cheeks growing even redder. I'd pressed the attack on the quarry, and now it was time to deliver the fatal strike. I took in a halted breath, letting her hear my arousal manifest itself in the spasm of my diaphragm, and then gave her

The Look.

You women know which look I'm talking about. Hopefully, a few of you guys do too. It's that magic look, where you dig deep into their mind and really get in touch with your inner savage. For one brief moment, all the trappings of humanity and civility fall away, and she knows,

knows

, that you're thinking about fucking her. Not just amusing yourself with the thought, but imagining it, picturing her moaning and sighing beneath you. It's so real in your mind that you can taste the sweat between her tits, and through the transmission of particle pheromones or some other secondary sex characteristic, she sees the image in her mind, too.

The Look was the final feather in this cap, and the most marvelous thing happened. She moaned. Real quiet, real small, and I was sure it was an accident. But she breathed out and I could hear the guttural groan in that breath, a raw animal sound that insured she'd received the image. The sound of her own throaty emission was a surprise to her, and her jaw dropped open the rest of the way. I was stunned when, right before my eyes, her nipples peaked underneath the sheer fabric of her dress, and Stacy cut loose with a full body shiver.

She gasped like a fish out of water once, stuttered twice, and then finally regained her composure with a nervous laugh. She let out a pent up breathe and threw me a 1,000 watt smile. "I don't think I'll need to be shipped again for at least a month."

Behind me, all the ladies erupted in laugher and cat calls. To be honest I welcomed the cacophony, anything to take my mind off the moment. I was surprised to see I'd developed an erection, my cock pushing almost straight out against the fabric of my shorts. Had it really been that tense? This wasn't going to be good. There was no way I could fix the tent in my denims without calling attention to it, and for some reason I didn't want Stacy to know she'd gotten to me that bad.

My hopes were dashed, though, when I realized she was staring at the bulge with obvious interest. My back was turned to the table, so nobody else had seen, but my straining dick was fairly leaping out at Stacy. To my surprise, she ran a finely pointed pink tongue over her lips, and then favored me the most impish smile I'd ever seen.

"That earned a hug, mister!" Stacy laughed girlishly, and the laugh turned into a giggle. Then she stepped forward, turning into me deftly and throwing one arm over my shoulder.

What happened next caught me so unawares that I'm truly impressed my heart didn't just shut. The fuck. Down. With the views of our friends blocked by mine and her backs, Stacy boldly ran a hand down my belly. She made a big show of squeezing against me in a long, familiar hug, while she shaped the fingers of her hand into a wedge and curled them into my waistband. Before my brain had really caught up, her hot palm was wrapped around my shaft.

I heard her breath catch then. I'm no Peter North, nor a Ron Jeremy, but my seven inch cock is surprisingly wide around and boasts veins as thick as dollar-store spaghetti. Stacy knew it was an impressive tool she had in her hand, and she stroked it twice rapidly before giving it an expert tug that freed the fat head of my dick from where it was binding against my shorts. She smoothed her palm over the underside of my prick, drawing her fingers up and laying my shaft straight up and down against my pelvis. When her hand retreated from the waist of my shorts, the tent had been replaced with a discreet ridge.