Taxus baccata by @UncleSpong (426 words)

She unzipped her skirt, a pencil thin number in grey and black dogtooth check with a split to the rear, dropped her knickers and squeezed out every last drop. It wasn't exactly the sexual afterglow she had fantasised about when imagining her first time.

Her colleagues had forewarned her. Jane had been with the company for two years longer than her, and her predication had been spookily accurate. This morning she had been handed a typewritten note by a man she had never laid eyes on before, requesting – nay, demanding – her presence at his city centre office on the fourth floor of a grey, Portland stone building overlooking the civic square.

Hey, she wasn't deluded and she wasn't na├»ve. She knew it was all about the sex, not an opportunity to get a pen pal or find a soul mate. It was only ever going to be about rough touches, frenzied grappling, the snapping of bra straps and her manicured digits fumbling in his y-fronts for his hairy, circumcised member.  Romance was not on the menu. How could it be? She'd never understood the combover and pencil moustache combination and it didn't do it for her at all. It was a transaction; he would shoot his hot seed into her and she would gladly accept, whether it gave her pleasure or not. If she wanted to make progress with the television broadcasting company and escape the bottom rung of the ladder, she knew this much was the minimum expected of her.

The encounter had been, euphemistically, an experience. As the cold reality of the last hour was replaying in her mind, she began to wonder whether it had all really happened. The folded note, the bus journey across town, knowing glances from the receptionist when she announced her arrival in the entrance lobby. The last vestiges of lube on her labia and the tangible ache in her taut calves were testimony to the reality that this had indeed just taken place. Did she enjoy it? Sort of. Did she regret it? That could only be answered in the fullness of time.

She grabbed a handful Izal Medicated – the very same toilet paper that ensured no schoolchild ever visited a toilet unless they were suffering some sort of rectal apocalypse – smeared away the evidence, then washed her hands and reassembled herself. She stared into the mirror, composing herself, before applying her lipstick, blotting and then whispering to herself:

"My name is April Conroy, and one day I will be extort that philandering bastard for all he's worth."

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