How is that you know when you've crossed that much-lauded line of decency? Is it a feeling that pervades the senses as an instant reaction to some dastardly deed? Is it a subtle hint that flickers at the back of your mind like the insistent buzzing of midday flies? Perhaps it is a dream, a fading wisp of memory that creeps into your thoughts during the dead of night, seeking you out when you are alone and afraid. I'll confess that I've been somewhat consumed by wondering for some days now.
Despite all of that tripe, it seems obvious to me that the realization of dark deeds done is a wholly unique experience for each person, the product of a lifetime of concerns, emotions, and learning that crafts, in and of itself, a perspective fit only for its maker. Knowing that... how could I ever learn what my realization would entail? The short answer is that I couldn't... can't... without realizing it for my self.
I guess that I have no right to challenge stereotype and tradition, so I'll just do like most every storyteller has done and explain myself. My name... god, does it really matter? Just call me Samantha. I'm the bank manager at the local Trust Exchange bank, where I spend the bulk of my waking hours keeping accounts and sighing with malcontent. It's a good job... but I miss the freedom of the road. See, during my twenties I earned my living as a backup dancer for a half-dozen one-hit pop music groups; you know the type. Five guys or one girl will stand at the front of the stage and pretend to sing while a troop of hard bodies shake and gyrate to make the ones at the front look better. Back then I was at the bottom of the top, ready to take on any challenge that came knocking at my door. My hair was a different color every month, my body bulged with lean, sexy muscle, and I was on top of the world.
Sixteen years and two children later, I'm a bank manager. My hair is back to its medium brown, largely uninteresting shade, my muscle isn't as muscular as it once was, and the only world I'm ever on top of belongs to someone else. After the bliss of my divorce (from one of the roadies of back in the day, if you can believe it) I've had to scratch and claw my way back up the ladder of life and now, at age thirty-four, I'm beginning to show signs of slowing down. At least I was, until about a week ago, when the first of my indiscretions occurred.
It was a day just like any other weekday. I had a quick breakfast and a hot shower, over the course of which I had an irritating, but all too common, realization. I was going to work horny, again.
Okay, I know this story just changed gears, but bear with me on this. See... I'm happy to be divorced from Jorge, even though he held onto custody of my son Alexander. I'm pleased as punch, because... even though he's a good father and a good man, Jorge just stopped loving me. Our sex life fizzled out as we lost physical interest in each other... and then we separated. I took our daughter Terra and moved here, to this dull burg, so that I could get a good job and provide for her future and mine. The problem with that... well, the problem is that I just don't have time for dating anymore. Up until a week ago I hadn't had sex in a solid two years, leastwise with someone I cared about, and I found myself growing a little more anxious every day as my job continued to devour the dwindling years of my youth.
Fast forward to one week ago. I had done a fine job of keeping my hands swift and unarousing during my shower, and I had dressed and gotten to work without any problems at all. By this point in my life I had stopped wearing hosiery and seldom was the time that my red/gray/green business skirt concealed a pair of panties, as I had made it a point to do whatever I could to ease my bodily wants so that I wouldn't sink down into the depression of physical loneliness. I had worn thongs for a while, but I never quite found the liking for them... and I had become rather adept at taking care of myself beneath my desk in my office, or wherever that god-forsaken urge would strike me... usually in the middle of something important. Often was the time when my assistant Leah would have to take over one of our weekly associate meetings while I walked down the hall to my office, in those tall heels that hurt my feet only enough to take some of the savor out of the stares my still-shapely bottom drew from the boys. Inevitably I would end up sitting in my cushy little roller-chair with the door locked and two fingers buried in my naked cunt, my radio turned up to drown out the soft moans that I couldn't hold back, and my left hand pinching at my rigid pink nipples through the thin fibers of my work shirt. By the time I'd finished, my whole office smelled of sex... and the process would begin all over again.
That fateful Tuesday was different in only one respect. On that day, one week ago, I had my radio way up and my fingers...well... much the same way. I was so into the pleasure of masturbating at work that I didn't hear the doorknob turning... didn't see the light peeking into my office until it was too late. Leah's mouth hung open in the middle of some word that hadn't had time to form, her twenty-two year old cheeks aflame with the blush of learning something... provocative.
I just stared. I stared until she turned to rush back out the door. I stared until the reality of what had just happened hit me like a right hook.
"Leah," I cried, staying the hand of my young apprentice, "wait, please, let me..." Let me what? Let me explain that I had been caught getting myself off during a staff meeting? I knew that I was just stalling, but I had to keep her from leaving my office until I could figure things out. I stood on shaky knees so that my skirt could fall back over my still-wanting lips, terrified that the redhead might bolt at any moment.
Her hand hesitated at the doorknob. Shook a little.
