"Jeez! Fifteen years," Meghan sighed, surveying her own cubby-hole of an office, and, through the open doorway, the general office beyond. "Who'd have thought?" She had expected to work there, at Line Control, an assembly-line components manufacturer, until retirement. Instead, she was moving across the country to support her husband who had just been promoted.
As her firm's continuity manager, Meghan had worked extensively with the front office staff, the administration, the shop staff, and the warehousemen. As an effective liaison, she had established an impressive rapport among the varied sections. The company was doing well--very well! And, many of her colleagues believed that it was through her efforts that the business continued to run like a well-oiled machine.
Many, perhaps most, of her male workmates, had, to some degree or other, the hots for her, and had entertained sexual fantasies about her, at one time or another. To say she was well-liked and well-respected was an understatement. Still, the chirping and chatter that was generally bandied about the plant might very easily have been considered inappropriate, even sexual harassment. That being said, Meghan was amused by, actually appreciative of, the innuendo and banter she encountered among the mainly male work-force. She certainly took no offence at the harmless suggestiveness she was subjected to often enough; although she playfully reprimanded the guys responsible--tsk, tsk-ing them, and shaking her head: "Boys will be boys," she figured, and left it at that.
Meghan Moray was a thirty-eight-year-old beauty--of some non-specific Mediterranean heritage. With rather swarthy skin and olive eyes, she was voluptuous--but not plump; in fact, she carried herself with an understated classiness.
Meghan had always considered herself a 'late-bloomer'. She had been a virgin at her wedding, and had been completely faithful throughout her thirteen-year marriage--more, she suspected, than could be said of her husband, Kyle. But she was really okay with that. The not-actually-knowing made it vague enough to ignore.
As limited as her experience might have been, Meghan was not without imagination. In her private daydreams, she enjoyed fantasies of capture and pirates and submission; but she knew these were just phantasms--phantasmagorical flights of fancy, ever to remain unrealized. However, she also had, stashed in her most secret memories banks, a collection of more attainable fantasies--a sort of sexual bucket list; things she might want to try, before she grew old, should the opportunities ever present themselves.
Smiling to herself, from time to time, she would reel them off in her head, just to keep them from fading: Strange--someone other than her husband; location--other than home or bed; black--just for the contrast and, she supposed, reputation; size--to answer the old question, 'Does it matter?' once and for all; multiple partners--"A gangbang by any other name would feel as..."--if one is good and two is better, is the change linear or geometric?"; double-penetration--for the fabled novelty; airtight--for the extreme and legendary excitement; orgy--to see if there is comfort in numbers; girl-on-girl--always has had a mysterious allure; and, lastly, getting screwed while on the phone with her hubby--for some reason reading about that in letters and stories online always, ALWAYS turned her on.
Without being aware of it herself, Meghan always seemed to emit a low-level erotic tension. She was, in fact, an acknowledged wet dream for bachelor CEO Crandall McArthur; and he was not shy about talking about it--fantasizing about it with some of the guys around the plant. He'd often airily concoct imaginary plans for getting Meghan alone into his office--or his car, or his condo, or a storage closet, or a back corner of the warehouse; and he was certainly not alone in that--whether the guys on the floor, those in the front office, or among his fellow executives, upstairs.
And so it was that Meghan was making the rounds of the plant--to say goodbye. It was a small firm of about a hundred employees--less than ten of those being women. The day before there had been a staff luncheon for Meghan, with good-bye speeches and the presentation of a gold necklace, earrings, and bracelet set; but it hadn't been conducive to personal good-byes. And it was important to Meghan to say goodbye to everyone, in person. She headed to the warehouse to start, smiling to herself at her own thinly disguised ulterior motive: to get one last chance to see and speak with her Jamaican Adonis. The plant floor, and especially the warehouse, was very cosmopolitan--a virtual United Nations of ethnic and cultural backgrounds. Although Meghan would never have admitted it out loud, Darrick, the Jamaican head-warehouseman, was definitely wet-dream material for her. He was tall and strong, trim and fit, his muscles sculpted. And, he had, Meghan thought, the most beautiful, milk-chocolate complexion.
Meghan stepped into the little office in the back corner of the warehouse mezzanine. "Hi, Darrick," she called softly, continuing in as he turned to face her. "Just wanted to personally say goodbye. And say what a pleasure it's been working with you."
Darrick rose and came around the desk to meet his visitor. He looked piercingly into her eyes, replying, in his lilting Caribbean accent, "Oh, Mrs. Moray, the pleasure has been all mine, believe you me!"
