Working Woman

A short story, written by Kade Hansson

You speed along in your compact blue car. It's a metallic blue- a very deep blue. A blue like an ocean. It is a blue that glitters in the morning sun, and makes you wish that you could take a detour to the beach. For an instant, you imagine yourself running towards the cool and refreshing sea with outstretched arms. Wearing nothing but bright lipstick, you run faster and faster to keep your feet from frying on the hot sand.

You must have lipstick on absolutely all of the time. It makes you feel so feminine when you know that your lips are painted ruby red. But it's just not enough to remember that you're painted- you have to press your lips together periodically, and feel them stick together. You shiver with delight as you pout before the rear view mirror, comparing yourself to a desparate slut walking the streets in the cold night. The word slut echo's in your head. It excites you for a moment, as you forget your sense of constriction.

The pouting prostitute vanishes in a second as you catch a glimpse of the bun over the top of your head. Your brown hair begins to look tired and you feel old. Was that a dull grey hair? You remind yourself of your age, but sigh as you realise that the number doesn't mean anything. It's how you feel inside. And boy, do you feel old!

The heavy tailored suit you encased your body in almost half-an-hour ago makes you perspire. The jacket makes you feel like a grid iron player, while the hound's tooth skirt holds itself tightly around your hips and thighs, pulling itself tighter with every minute. You overtake as many cars as you can, frustrated that you can never get to the front. There's always one more car. You form a laboured smile at the cliche that pops into your head: "Life is a highway." And yours is a long, straight and boring one, with no beautiful scenery to speak of. The road across the Nullabor Plain.

"It's too hot for this jacket," you say to yourself. No sooner than the last word passes through your mind, you hurriedly thread your arms out of the silken lining, and release yourself from the garment's weight. You flick it onto the seat beside you, extending slender fingers as if to point it in the right direction. Bringing polished nails back to the wheel, you find yourself feeling a little less restricted, and try to imagine yourself on the beach again. But this time you imagine yourself being stared at by someone everywhere you look. Your still wearing that skirt, and an insanely uncreased white blouse, strangling you with it's tight collar. The black nylon of your pantyhose just make you itch now. You don't feel anywhere near as sexy as when you rolled them onto your legs earlier. In fact, you don't feel sexy in the least.

Unbuttoning your blouse makes you feel a bit cooler, but still your bra holds your breasts. Completely unnatural and stupidly perky. If they could talk they'd be complaining that they don't like being squeezed and forced to stand on end, pointing the way ahead. One hand on the wheel, you unfasten the back of the bra and manage to thread your arm out of one strap. Releasing your breasts, the bra swings gently from its left strap, and you cup your right breast. Kneading it gently you feel its damp stickiness. Like the rest of your body, it swelters in the heat. Why is it you wish for summer all year, but when it finally comes around you never take the chance to enjoy it?

Too overworked in a corporate career to go to go to the beach. Too drained and exhaused after work to go out and enjoy yourself. Too stressed to worry about attacting husbands. Too damned domineering to have anyone consider a relationship with you. No, the men who turn to unattractive apologetic jelly in in your presence, none of them have ever fantasized about you. You can hardly feel like a sexually appealing woman when you intimidate corporate overachievers all day. But desire to succeed in business is not your only desire. You have much more strong and powerful longings- ones that you have not yet fulfilled.

Often you fantasize about having your way with one of them when they visit your private office. While a typical puddle of male hormones is fidgeting in his chair while you stand up to lecture him, you begin to move towards him. He eyes you worriedly, but before he has a chance to run in fear you pin him down, and suck the resistance from him, holding his thigh so tightly that you expect to rupture the skin any second. You slide your hands up to the top of his pants and open the path to his feeble little penis. You slip through his meagre defenses by frying his stressed-out little brain with the same sexual longings that press you against the rigid confines of your businesswoman persona every drawn-out second of every stagnant day. You feel him and hold him, but find yourself disgusted with the pathetic hard-on you've given him. You decide he must prove himself worthy. Lifting your skirt and tearing the gusset of your pantyhose, you show him what he must do to make up for his irreverance, and submit to your, and everywoman's, sexual power over his subordinate gender.

He cannot hesitate of course. You are woman. He is man. It is his sole purpose in life to serve you and the rest of your kind. All his intellegence and self-control is dissolved in your presence, and he sucks you and licks you while you straddle him. He leans back in the expensive leather armchair, and cleans your sticky wetness and opens the sluices of complete sexual release. Feeding on you as you delight in his worship, he moans. But you do nothing but breath heavily, and hold off for as long as you can. But when what you have been waiting for comes, you find that your imagination makes a pathetic attempt at simulating an Earth-shattering orgasm.

In the fast lane now, you zoom past slower vehicles. You awkwardly slide out of your skirt, almost ignoring the road as you search for the patch of dampness spreading in the gusset of your pantyhose. Glancing down you can see the stain your wet pussy has made during your fantasy. With a devilish grin, you pull off your pantyhose, carelessly tossing them on the floor of the passanger's side, along with the skirt. You feel like fainting now, overwhelmed by heat that seems to come from within your loins. You finally switch on the air conditioner. "Stuff the ozone layer. I can't faint now!" you whisper. Releasing your hair, you shake it until the ends of its kinked and twisted strands rest on the pure white of your unbuttoned blouse. The cool air makes you feel wet and slippery instead of sticky, and though the surface of your skin seems to cool a little, inner fires compensate fiercely.

You masage your breasts and rub your nipples, cultivating the sexual desires that have been pressing against your self-control and sanity for years on end. No longer is a damp dreamy fantasy enough. You need to experience the ecstasy, you need to feel sexual and erotic now, in the summer heat, in a speeding car on a straight higway, acutely aware of mind, body and soul. Your needs are so great, you just can't contain yourself anymore. You must submit to your inner sexuality, and fuck yourself until all the carnal lust is evaporated.

Tongue caressing your firey lips, you begin to see an end in sight. You accelerate in the direction of your destination, tweaking your nipple further. Each time you find yourself experiencing the same sensual, tensing reaction. Running your finger around the hypersensitive areola one last time, you let your fingertips glide down over your stomach and onto a sticky mass of hair. You shiver as the finger dances over your sex with a mind of its own. It uncovers the mysteries of your pleasure faster than any try-hard man.

Your foot rocks on the accelerator, pulling and pushing at the car. You continue to fondle and stroke your pussy, thumbing your clit almost as an afterthought. Your mind is awash with strong primal desires, and is hardly even capable of maintaining regularity in your short panting gasps. And the gasps sound so submissive and resigned that you are almost ashamed to call yourself a feminist.

Control is a joke, and you can barely notice the road ahead now. As you feel the ultimate climax building inside every muscle, and acutely firing every nerve, the car's acceleration gets more and more erratic. A measure of the erotic fluctuations in your quaking body. You feel so hot and moist, and yet completely unbothered. Every pore seems to be squealing with the pressure, as perspiration forms a glistening liquid film on your skin.

And then you finally cum, and it reverberates through you- through every limb and through every organ. You shake, and desire ebbs away in fits and bursts. Your eyes roll uncontrollably and you bite down on your tongue with the immense feeling of release. You grip your right breast tightly, and jerk the steering wheel. You breath out deeply, releasing your tension through a loud groan. You feel the heat inside you flowing away, and relax to bathe in the cool puddle of slime around you.

Dizzied by the pure ecstasy, it takes you several seconds to realise that your car is no longer on the road. You feel insanely calm as you see a fence post approaching through the long grass. You see every individual blade fold under the front of your car, but are too carefree to panic. Finally the post strikes the car, and crumples the bonnet as if it were a cardboard carton. Your car stops dead, but you are still riding high.

You close your eyes and feel the dull pain of the seatbelt tearing at your cleavage. Knocked senseless by the steering wheel, you recoil from the impact and open your eyes. Blood and dilerium blur your vision, but your mind is still racing. Before you lay back gently, you twist your face into a grin, and make a weak attempt at a laugh. You've decided what to write on the insurance claim. The words fill your mind as you let your heavy lids fall once more, slipping into a contented unconsciousness. "Accident cause: I cum. Oh boy- did I cum!"

Exit: The Alpha Collection; Kasoft Typesetting; Archer

This work is a part of the Kasoft Typesetting storybook The Alpha Collection

Kasoft is a registered trademark of Kasoft Software, owned by Kade Hansson.

Copyright 1995 Kade "Archer" Hansson; e-mail: