Girl’s Night Out

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Author: Cecilia

Her arse was about three stories off the floor. Simultaneously it was both tight and apple round. I looked at her feet, expecting to see high, high heels and tortured calves. Instead she wore light runners. I thought she might be planning a night of club dancing. My eyes rose back up her body. She was watching me.

I turned back to our table and the women from the office. I hadn’t really wanted to come out with them after work but it had seemed the politic thing to do. I was the new girl and wanted to show them that I wasn’t as standoffish as they seemed to think. Sharing a few drinks and a secret or two seemed to be the best way to become one of the gang. I didn’t need them to know all my secrets though.

I glanced back at the black woman. She was still watching me. I quickly raised my glass to my face while I wondered what she read in me.

The conversation at our table was all the usual office politics and tattletale. I recognized many of the names but the gossip relied on more detailed knowledge of my new workplace’s mythology than I possessed.

Getting bored, I drank a little faster than the others. Soon I needed to visit the lady’s room.

The cubical was painted some shade between pink and fuchsia. In the glare of the strip lighting the color was garish and jarring. I wondered how a drunken girl would cope with it. There was a scribble of marker pen graffiti below the paper roll.

I’m the sort of girl who even reads the back of her bus ticket so, of course, I lent forward to read the message – “A friend doesn’t let a friend go home with an ugly.”

It seemed good advice but I wasn’t, really, with friends and I was drinking faster than was sensible. I decided I’d go back to the table and, thanking the others for their company. I would beg off the rest of the night with “things to do”. I stood, adjusted my clothes and pressed the plunger. The noise of the flush drowned the click as I unlocked the door.

I’d barely begin to open it when it flew into the cubical, followed by the woman I’d watched at the bar. Her lips pressed against my mouth, pinning me to the wall. My vision was full of her face. Her chocolate skin was so smooth and hairless she seemed to be without pores. In the corners of her eyes, against her long nose, it was black-blue. Everywhere it shone with a slick of perspiration.

I heard the tongue of the door lock slide home and she shifted her posture against me. The pressure of her mouth against mine lessened. I tasted blood. My teeth must have grazed the inside of my lip.

Beyond the walls of the cubical, the door into the rest room clattered and a pair of women entered the room, talking loudly to each other. She forced her mouth back against mine so hard I had trouble getting air in my nose. I could feel her own nostrils flare against my cheeks and the current of her breaths. She had hold of my arms above my wrists, trapping them against the wall. With the tips of my fingers I could feel the embossing of the toilet tissue. I could have made a noise — clattered the paper roll or from my mouth.

I didn’t. I studied the limits of her face so close to me. The curve of her cheek like an ebony moon rising across my horizon. Her lashes, so long, evenly curved and parallel they seemed too perfect to be real. The smell of her was of clean sweat, salty like the blood against my tongue.

She didn’t relax her grip until the other women left, the door slamming behind them.

She stepped back and, in the confined space, we stood opposite each other. We each had our backs against the walls. We didn’t speak. My arms were sore where she had held them. Her eyes traveled across my body. I watched her face.

She reached forward to my blouse and, starting at the top, began to unbutton it. My throat was tight with my breath. My brain felt giddy. She reached my skirt’s waistband and pulled my top free. With the back of her hands she swept the blouse off my shoulders, revealing the coy white cups containing my breasts.

She took in my pale freckled chest then, with the tips of her fingers, gently stoked the pale skin above my bra. I looked down at her brown hands against the cream of my cleavage. Her fingers were long. The lines of almost black wrinkles circling her pronounced knuckles were their only adornment.

Slowly she turned her hands towards my heart and released the hook at the front of my bra. She cupped my breasts in her hands. I expected her touch to be warm but her palms were chilly against my flesh. My nipples hardened. She bent forward and took my left tit into her mouth. Her tongue stoked the underside of my nipple. I arched my back and closed my eyes.

The rest room door slammed, startling us both. She jerked her head back from my chest. We looked at each other. The whites of her eyes were starkly beautiful against her dark skin. There were just two flecks of pink against the bridge of her nose — her tear ducts, looking like miniature hooded clits.

I reached behind her head and pulled her mouth back to my breast. She sucked it into her. Her teeth brushed the arc of my flesh and her tongue played with my nipple and the dimples of my areola. I bit my lip, withholding a sigh.

The door slammed again.

“Come home with me,” I said.

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