Abby slid her panties on – nothing fancy, just a pair of black cotton; nobody was going to see them, right? – and then wrestled herself into her black pantyhose. She could feel Patrick's eyes on her as she did this. On other days she would take her time with this, teasing him. She knew he liked the soft rustle of the fabric as she drew the nylon over her calf, then slid it slowly along her thigh; first one long leg, and then the other. But she was not teasing today, just getting dressed. She pretended not to even notice that he was awake. She didn't have time. Or the inclination, really. She rarely did. It was clear to both of them that that was part of the problem.
Abby tugged at the stockings here and there, straightening them out, and then threw on the blue silk blouse she had chosen, and walked to the bathroom vanity to put on her makeup. Again, she could feel his eyes following her, but she didn't really care. She was just focused on getting to her interview on time. She left the door open for him as a courtesy. From where Patrick still lay in the bed, he would be able to see her; leaned over the counter in just her blouse and pantyhose. Abby made sure her back was curved just the right way as she bent over to see in the mirror better. Tilting her hips so he could see her ass better. Not teasing, just… helping.
She knew without looking that he was taking in the view of the stockings on her toned legs, appreciating the curve of her ass. He'd be thinking about walking up behind her and pressing against her, sliding himself along the cleft of her ass, as she continued to apply her mascara. Fantasizing about the feel of the nylon on his erection. In his mind's eye he was running his hands up her nylon-clad thighs to her hips, gripping them and pulling her tight against his cock.
A faint rustle came from the bed—the sound of fabric shifting, then the soft, rhythmic creak of mattress springs. Abby kept her eyes fixed on her reflection, blending eyeshadow with a fingertip. She could picture him perfectly: one hand working beneath the duvet, his gaze locked on the curve of her hips, the way the sheer nylon clung to her skin. She pressed her thighs together. The nylon whispered against itself.
She knew his fantasy well. His hips would nudge forward. The blunt heat of him settling against her ass, separated only by the sheer barrier. She would feel the slickness of his pre-cum seep through. His thrusts would grow erratic, losing rhythm and become jagged, urgent stabs. He would pull her hips tighter against him as he ground up and down, until he brought himself to orgasm all over the back of her pantyhose. She could almost feel the hot liquid spill across the taut nylon. His body would shudder violently, and his climax would seep through the fabric, running through the cleft of her ass and down the inside of her thigh.
She knew him well after all these years. She also knew that he wouldn't actually do it. He knew better than to bother her while she was getting ready to go somewhere. She supposed they both knew each other pretty well after ten years of marriage. He rarely made a move without a clear sign from her that he wouldn't be rebuffed.
So, Abby didn't mind, in situations like this, helping his imagination a little. She could hear his breathing getting heavier, more rhythmic, as he stroked himself. There was an itch on her thigh, and she reached down to scratch it, using the flat of her hand so she didn't snag her hose. She made it look like she had reached down to caress her leg and ran her hand slowly up her thigh and over her ass. The mattress springs quickened their rhythm, a staccato pulse beneath his stifled grunts. Abby smoothed her blouse over the pantyhose waistband, the fabric whispering against nylon. A low groan escaped him, followed by a wet, sticky sound—familiar, almost mundane. Abby knew he had climaxed.
The thought of his erection, or his orgasm, even of his desire for her, didn't do anything for Abby. Not that it repulsed her. It just didn't arouse her in any way. There wasn't anything wrong with her husband. He was certainly well enough endowed. He was caring and considerate. She sometimes wondered if any woman was actually aroused by the compliment of desire but doubted it. Abby was convinced that female sexuality was just a myth created by men in Hollywood.
Abby grabbed the black skirt off the hanger and stepped into it, pulled it up, zipped it and then slid into her heels. She checked herself in the mirror, making sure the skirt was still an office appropriate length, breaking just a few inches above the knee. She made sure to grab a hand towel for Patrick on her way out of the bathroom.
"You look nice" Patrick complimented her.
"Thank you." Abby tossed him the hand towel. "I'm a little nervous, though. I haven't interviewed in a while."
"You'll be fine," he reassured her. "You're more than qualified." That was certainly true. But jobs were hard to find so she had taken the first decent interview that came along. "Maybe when you get home we can relieve some of that tension" he flirted. Abby smiled.
"Maybe" she teased. She probably would make love to him. He was so patient this morning, considering how much she knew he was needing her that it only seemed fair. Not that it was entirely an obligation or duty on her part. She did enjoy making love with him. Although maybe not as much as he wanted her to. For her it was on the same level as enjoying a nice bath with some fancy salts and candles. But nothing mind blowing. Sex never had been, for her. To Abby, Patrick seemed a little over-sexed sometimes.
"Are you trading today?" she asked. Patrick traded currency. He did it on his own, rather than for a firm. It gave him some freedom but meant he didn't have the capital of a firm at his disposal. But it was paying most of the bills. Hopefully today would go well and Abby would be able to cover the rest.
"Later. Labor statistics are coming out this afternoon, so I'm waiting until then."
"Well, this place is only twenty minutes away, and I'm told this interview won't take very long. It's just the first one. I should be home in a couple hours. Maybe three." Patrick wished her luck and watched her walk out of the room.
***
The woman who greeted Abby when she got off the elevator was exactly what any company would want greeting clients or potential employees. She seemed to be about the same age as Abby, was attractive and shapely with perfectly coiffed hair just past the shoulders. In those ways she and Abby could be clones. Abby, always a little sensitive to old-fashioned sexist stereotypes in the workplace, wondered (a little snarkily) how this company based its hiring decisions. In other ways Abby and the women were visual opposites. Her blonde hair to Abby's brunette; Her skirt was khaki against Abby's black, and her legs were bare and tanned. Glancing at the skirt Abby decided she hadn't needed to double-check the length of her own. This women's skirt was mid-thigh, and form fitting. The black blouse the women wore had two more buttons undone than Abby would have thought was allowable and she could see the sliver of black lace behind the silk shirt. Abby wondered who at the company the woman was sleeping with that she could get away with that.
"Abby?" she asked, extending her hand.
"Yes."
"Nice to meet you. I'm Christie" she smiled. "I'll take you to Mr. Armstrong's office."
As they walked through office Abby took a prudent look around. At any interview she always wanted to get a feel for the vibe of the place. Did the other employees seem happy? Were they smiling, chatting and laughing? Or were the only sounds the click of keyboards and the ringing of phones? Looking around Abby saw people both hard at work but also chatting and joking with each other. There didn't seem to be as many women as men, but the power dynamics between them were hard to pick out. As far as Abby could see there was an equality here that was absent in most work environments. Everyone she passed acknowledged her with a smile.
Abby also noticed that the other women were all dressed like Christy – blouses half unbuttoned, skirts short and form fitting. Maybe she had been a little harsh in her initial judgment of Christie. It had been awhile since Abby had been in an office, so maybe the fashion had changed. She supposed she would have to update her wardrobe. Either that or be seen as the out-of-date office prude. And it wasn't as if the attire were unprofessional or trashy. Instead of business casual they had business sexy, perhaps? Abby smiled at her silliness. She figured she could get used to the new fashion. On the plus side, she notice the men were all in tailored suits, nothing off the rack. At least they were equal opportunity about the eye-candy.
Christie stopped outside of a corner office with a nice view of the city. The interior facing wall was entirely glass, with expensive window treatments in the event privacy was desired. The heavy mahogany door stood open, and Christy rapped it sharply.
"Mr. Armstrong, I have Abby Holden here for you." Abby was not prepared for the man who turned from the window. It wasn't often you came face to face with something off the cover of GQ Magazine. He wore a dark blue suit with matching vest, no jacket or tie, with the sleeves of his salmon shirt rolled to mid-forearm. Like everyone else here, he didn't believe in using the top buttons, which was just fine with Abby. His dark hair was full and wavy and expensively kept. Abby felt her breath catch in her throat and hoped she hadn't gasped out loud. When he smiled and extended his hand it only made it worse, and she quickly tried to get her pulse under control and compose herself before speaking. Had her face gone flush? God, she really hoped not.
"Very nice to meet you, Abby. I'm James Armstrong." She took his hand, and it felt like a small charge of electricity shot through her body. She felt warm and lost confidence in her knees.
"Abby Holden" she responded. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Armstrong." The office was simply, but nicely, apportioned. The desk was in front of the window and faced the door. There were two comfortable looking chairs in front of it, situated side by side and close together. There was a small sofa in one corner with a coffee table, and shelving took up the opposite wall, filled with books and various nick-nacks.
"Let's have a seat" he indicated the chairs in front of his desk. He swung the chairs around, so they were at right angles, and they could face each other a little easier. She saw him watching as she crossed her legs. He somehow made it seem casual and not at all like leering, and she found herself grateful for his attentions rather than irritated at the presumption.
"This is really just an informal chat" he started. "The more formal interview would be the next step, but this is just to get a sense of each other. Personality, and how well you'd fit with the group, is as important for us as the skillsets you bring to the table."
"That's a refreshing way of thinking."
"I think you'll find that we're not your run-of-the-mill company" he agreed. Abby caught the gentle hint of his cologne and felt a warmth in her thighs. She recrossed her legs actually hoping he would notice (which he did), and she mentally scolded herself for such ridiculousness. What the hell had gotten into her all of a sudden? "Speaking of skillset, what made you apply for an admin position? Besides your business degree you've got a solid resume."
"That's nice of you to say, and to be honest, I almost scrolled past the listing. But of course, the salary caught my eye. It was higher than I would expect for an admin. So, I read further and it sounded like there's more involved than just keeping somebody's calendar and typing up their memos." James Armstrong chuckled at that, and Abby felt herself flush again. She recrossed her legs and continued. "It sounded more dynamic and challenging than usual, and is in a field I've always found interesting, so I thought I would apply and find out more."
"And here you are" he smiled at her.
"And here I am" Abby smiled back and recrossed her legs. She was doing it intentionally now.
"Well, let me tell you a little bit about the company. We're basically a small, boutique investment firm whose area of specialty is making money." He held up a hand as if he knew what she was thinking. "Now, I know that sounds like generic, macho garbage, but let me explain what I mean by that. Most firms specialize in certain areas. Some are hedge funds, for example. Some focus on real estate. The idea being that you do one thing and do it well. But we'd rather not limit ourselves to one market. If there's an area we feel could be lucrative, we'll go after it. If we don't have an expert for that area, then we'll acquire one."
"Sounds very entrepreneurial" Abby noted.
"That's a good way of putting it. I think everybody here would think of themselves that way. Right now, we have divisions for general securities, real estate, commodities, and venture capital. Each of those areas has a director and those four directors, plus myself, make up the board."
"And what's your area of expertise?" Abby asked, recrossing her legs. She realized she sounded like something from an adult movie and convinced herself the inuendo was unintentional. If Armstrong thought otherwise, he gave no indication.
"I used to handle commodities. But it was too much to do that and run a company. All the directors get a large percentage of their division's profits. Since I have no division, I receive a nice salary and equally nice bonus each year."
"Who are the other people I see on the floor?"
"Each division has a dedicated admin; more like a traditional admin – keeping calendars and writing memos" he smiled. "Then, each director can subdivide his area as he sees fit, if he needs to hire an assistant director to cover it. For example, general securities could be broken into stocks, options, bonds, etc. If that director felt like he needed an assistant to help focus on one of those areas, he's free to do that."
"So, tell me more about this 'untraditional' admin role." There she was sounding like a porno, again. But at least this time she kept her legs in one place. He glanced at them anyways, casually, as if she were his to look at, or not.
"You would be the Floor Admin" he explained. We have an extensive amount of records we need to keep for tax and legal purposes. We keep records of every transaction, every buy and sell for three to seven years as a hard copy. Longer in digital copy. Your job would be to keep all of those files up-to-date and organized. Your business degree comes in handy because you'll need to recognize when you're missing something, or even when an additional document might be a good idea to have. Or maybe the IRS or legal will ask for something and you'll need to know what it is. You help keep all of our asses out of the fire so we can focus on what we do. Sometimes our directors and assistant directors get busy and forget to get you what you need, and you'll need to be assertive in getting it from them. And other duties as assigned" he finished.
Abby should have explored that last sentence but didn't. She nodded as he spoke trying to focus on the important details and not her pulse that hadn't stopped racing since she shook his hand. "Is Christie your secretary?" she asked.
"No, Christie is our floor manager. She makes sure everybody is where they are supposed to be, meetings and so forth. Makes sure the folks who handle set up for a meeting have done so; calls maintenance; acts as a sort of a liaison between everybody and keeps everything running like clockwork. And other duties as assigned."
There it was again. In any other interview Abby would have rooted out what that meant before going any further, but she hadn't managed to get herself thinking clearly yet. The surprise she felt when this romance novel cover had turned around and smiled at her hadn't worn off yet. "In a way," he continued, "you could say you're both my secretaries, since these are executive functions you're handling, and both of you report directly to me."
"Where does that place us in the organizational chart?" Abby was relieved to finally ask something that sounded intelligent. Armstrong took a breath and thought for a few seconds.
"I would say it places you generally on level with the assistant directors. However, by answering directly to me, you have the freedom to assert the necessary authority you have over your role, even with a director, without it being insubordinate. You need to be able to do whatever's necessary to get what you need from everyone. Does that make sense?"
"I think I understand" she answered. He smiled, which made her feel warm again.
"I have a feeling you'd pick things up quickly." She smiled at the compliment, bigger than she meant to, and asked herself yet again what had gotten into her. "Also, there's room to move up. In fact, Christie was the previous floor admin. She's been in her current role for about a week. So, if you come on board there will be some catch up for you to do, and it'll need to be done quickly."
"Alright" she nodded, and he continued.
"So then, what's in it for you?" he segwayed. She rested a hand on her leg, which drew another glance from him. But she quickly put it back on the arm of her chair when she felt a strange urge to caress her thigh. At that moment, Abby didn't trust herself not to give in to it unthinkingly. "You're already aware of the salary. There's also quarterly profit sharing down to the assistant director level, which you and Christie will participate in. Standard benefits package, vacation, sick time, etc. What's not in the job listing is that there is a ten-thousand-dollar sign on bonus if you're still here in ninety days."
"That's a generous compensation package."
"We demand a lot, but we believe in taking care of our people. We also have a few unique fringe benefits that you'll learn about along the way. I think that about sums everything up. Do you have any questions for me?"
A little voice in the back of her head reminded her about the additional duties. But she wasn't listening and asked about the next steps. Armstrong explained that, contingent on his recommendation, there would be a panel interview with the other directors. Additional duties as assigned, the little voice said again, but Abby told him she had no further questions, and Christie was there to see her back to the elevators.
***
Abby needed to get home to Patrick and the twenty minutes felt like it was taking forever. She couldn't remember the last time she was this worked up. She only hoped Patrick had more in his tank after his little self-care regimen earlier. Traffic felt heavier than it should've been for that time of day, but maybe it was just the urgency of her need that made it seem that way. When she finally pulled off the main road and onto the road leading to her house she could almost feel the relief. But then, just as she was about to cross a set of railroad tracks, the safety arms came down. Abby really didn't think she could wait out a train. She threw her car into park and took her foot off the break. Her fingers tapped impatiently on the steering wheel.
Her skirt had ridden up slightly against the leather seat, and she shifted, feeling the nylon slide against her thighs. A restless heat prickled beneath her skin. Her hands drifted down, fingertips brushing the taut fabric stretched over her stomach. She ran her hands from knee to thigh and spread her legs. Through the sheer pantyhose, she traced the trim of her panties. Her breath hitched as she pressed down, just enough pressure to spark a low thrum between her legs. Outside, the train cars rattled past, wheels clacking rhythmically against the tracks. She shifted her hips, pressing deeper against the seat. The nylon whispered louder now, a secret friction against her inner thigh. Her head tipped back against the headrest, eyes half-closed. The train's rumble vibrated through the car's frame, syncing with the pulse building inside her. One hand continued to massage her thighs, and she brought the other hand up and fondled her breasts, squeezing the hard nipples through the silk fabric of her blouse. She wished they were someone else's hands.
Abby glanced in the mirror at the truck behind her. She wondered if the driver could make out what she was doing but decided she didn't care. She kept her left hand on her breast, squeezing and massaging, her right hand still working between her spread legs. Her panties were moist and had been since not long into the interview. She slid her hand along the wetness, rubbing herself and moaning softly. Her middle finger massaged slowly, deliberately, slickness spreading against her skin.
She glanced in her mirror at the other driver but couldn't tell if he was watching her car or the train. Sunlight glinted off passing boxcars—endless, monotonous. But inside, everything narrowed to that single point of contact. Her breath came quicker, shallow.
"Mmm…" she moaned, biting her lower lip. Her fingers found her clit through the wet fabric, and she rubbed back and forth. Her pantyhose made it too hard to move the panties aside, so she pressed harder into the material. She was breathing hard, moving her fingers back and forth over her clit at a steady rhythmic pace. She moved her other hand from her breast down to stroke her thigh, quickening the rhythm of her fingers.
"Ahh, yes…" She hardly heard the roar of the train as it sped past. She checked her mirror again as she masturbated her clit. She pressed harder, faster now, hips lifting slightly off the seat. The rhythm matched the clack-clack-clack of wheels on rails. Sweat prickled her temple. Her skirt bunched higher, forgotten. She pressed harder, fingers moving faster, until she felt the spasms rise up from that place deep within her, groaning as they broke through the surface, her stomach tensing and her legs trembling.
Her body relaxed, and she enjoyed the restful feeling that followed an orgasm. But it was only a temporary relief. The panties numbed the sensation, and it was really just a little orgasm. She would need more but at least now she could wait out this damn train and make it home.
A horn blared—sharp, sudden. Abby flinched, fingers freezing. Her eyes snapped open. The truck behind her had edged forward impatiently, its grille filling her rearview mirror. She pulled her hand free, heart hammering against her ribs. The nylon clung damply to her skin. She smoothed her skirt down with trembling hands, cheeks burning. How long had she been lost in it? The train rumbled off, the arms were up. Abby threw the car in drive and pulled through.