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  Eventually he straightened up, and lifted me completely off the floor, his hands supporting my body by grabbing the inside of my thighs, grunting and sweating like an animal. This went on for about five minutes, and then he came inside me. The first indication I had that something was happening was the building pressure inside his cock, the furious pace as he used me, until at last something seemed to burst and there was wetness and heat between my legs, and a great cry from Phillip.

  He let me slide down the door until my feet found the ground again, his cock slipping out as I dropped. I stayed lying against the door as he laid his forehead on the top of my head, panting and breathing deeply, but saying nothing. After a couple of minutes he stepped back from me and I listened as he put his pants back on, and stepped into his shoes.

  “You get dressed,” he said, as he reached out to the door handle, forcing me to step back. “I’ll see you downstairs.” And then he was gone, the door closing gently behind him.

  Laid, I thought. Take that, Parker.

  I didn’t feel anything. I wasn’t different, older or wiser. I hadn’t even enjoyed it, not really. Oh, it wasn’t bad or anything, but there was no orgasm, no feeling of closeness, nothing. Frigid, maybe?

  I walked into the middle of the room and turned to face the mirror on the wall next to the bookcase. I stared at myself. Five foot nothing, or just shy of, pale white thighs peaking out of the top of tanned stockings, dark brown hair between my legs, coated with sweat and wet sticky cum. I was still wearing my black suit jacket and white blouse, still wearing my librarian glasses, still wearing my Mary Jane’s with their three inch heels, still had my hair pulled back into a plain pony tail. I thought I looked silly standing there in Phillip’s bedroom, my skirt and panties on the floor behind me.

  I wasn’t a virgin any more. It was done, finished with.

  Could I stare into this mirror every day for the next forty years? Could I lean up against a door while Phillip used me from behind and then left, telling me to get dressed and that he’d see me downstairs? Phillip with his uncut hair and dirty finger nails. Phillip with his National Geographic Magazines and garlic breath.

  All of a sudden I couldn’t stand it anymore. Call centers and tube trains, pervs and frigid virgins. I had to get out; I had to get out now, and just do something, or go somewhere—anything, anywhere. I rushed over to Phillip’s bed and grabbed a pillow, using it to wipe my pussy as dry as I could. Would the rest of it drip out later, or would it stay in? How should I know? They never talk about that in women’s magazines. I pulled on my skirt, zipped it up at the back, then buttoned it tight, before opening the door and creeping down the stairs.

  They were all in the living room, drunk and arguing about nothing—badly fitting people in badly fitting clothes, living badly fitting lives. I slipped past the living room door into the hallway without being seen, grabbed my coat and bag and opened the front door. Would this be where I got caught? Dragged back into a life of mediocrity and academia and sex up against doors?

  Nobody stopped me or called out. I closed the door quietly behind me and ran down the street, back towards Chiswick High Road and freedom. There were sounds of celebration coming from open windows and doors all along the street. Little crowds huddled outside doorways smoking, talking and laughing.

  I laughed. It was funny. Life was funny—my life and what it had nearly been. Phillip was funny, with his bedroom and his bad hair and his poor mother, who gave up her life for her baby boy. It wasn’t until I reached Chiswick High Road that I realized I’d left my panties on the floor of Phillip’s bedroom.

  I’d never felt do free.

  Chapter 4

  Tuesday morning wasn’t long in coming. I’d had two days off after the messy evening at Phillip’s over New Years and I’d been busy. Things were different now—no more wallflower, no more Criddles, no more frigid virgin Clara. I was determined to fashion a new life for myself that didn’t involve all the dull and boring things that had filled the past ten years of my existence.

  Why should the Parker’s of the world have all the fun? I asked myself. I’m a woman too. I have boobs. I could do whatever I wanted, be whoever I wanted to be. And it was all starting today.

  I’d worked out a plan over the past couple of days, complete with PowerPoint slides: “Clara’s New Life” I’d called it. There were diagrams and stick figures and everything. Today I would begin implementing that plan. I was going to have fun, have men, have sex somewhere that wasn’t up against a door, have alcohol in pint glasses. I was going to be respected by the pretty people. I was going to be a pretty person.

  It was five minutes to nine when I walked into the office. Most of the desks were already filled as the Call Center staff got ready for the post-holiday rush. I was on time, but I’d never arrived so late before. My usual routine was to get in at eight o’clock, do some paperwork before the crowds arrived, then tick them all off as they came in. Part of Clara’s New Life was working nine to five and not doing anything that I wasn’t paid for. I’d spent the extra hour in bed earlier playing with the vibrator I’d bought on Monday in an Ann Summer’s sex shop on Kensington High Street.

  I was definitely not frigid.

  Parker was sitting at her desk putting her headphones on, and I greeted her as I walked past, making a beeline for the admin desk at the center of the room. She said something in reply, but I wasn’t listening.

  I wasn’t a new person. I wasn’t planning on making huge changes overnight. My mother always said that I had a clear, ordered head. I think she meant it as a vague insult, hinting that I’d be more interesting if my head were a little more scatterbrained like hers. But my clear head had its uses. Making too many changes all at once was risky. I was bound to get something wrong—take a left turn when I should have taken a right—and if I bundled all the changes into one rushed week, it would be hard to correct the mistakes when they popped up. So my plan was to introduce one or two changes at a time, and adjust accordingly.

  Today’s changes included arriving on time and dressing a little differently. I was wearing a textured, cream colored sweater with a high crew neckline and bracelet sleeves, along with a yellow tinted pair of pants. I’d seen the outfit on a mannequin in a shop window on the Kings Road the day before, and I couldn’t resist. That same evening I’d tossed all my three inch heels to the back of the cupboard. I was slim and short. Trying to hide that behind shoulder pads and heels was pointless. I’d kept the glasses because I thought that the sexy librarian look might work for me, but I’d let my hair down. It was a deep brunette color, and it reached halfway down my back. I’d even tried a little hairspray for the first time.

  At nine on the dot I flicked a switch and the phones started ringing. Then I sat down and took the lid off my Starbucks latte, content to let the staff get to work around me.

  Chapter 5

  The user-group prep meeting began a few hours later. We had two events planned in the following weeks, one at a hotel in Manchester, the other at an airport hotel at Gatwick. We were expecting about thirty crime analysts from various police departments to turn up at each—all users of our software, and all eager to learn about the new features and changes. The Call Center ran the user groups because we were the frontline when it came to customer service, and the analysts were used to talking to us on the phone.

  Usually I took a step back at these sorts of things, preferring to let the men handle the out of office events and the face-to-face client interaction. But part of my plan was to put myself in different situations, with people I didn’t know, and these user groups were a perfect opportunity.

  “I want to go,” I said as Stephen was outlining the personnel required for each event.

  “You what?” he said.

  “I want to go to Manchester on Thursday,” I said, “and Gatwick next month.”

  “But you never go.”

  “Well, now I want to go,” I said, letting my impatience show.

  “But it’s all a
rranged.”

  “I’ve looked over the list of who’s going,” I said calmly, “and it reads like something pulled off your Facebook wall. Is there anyone on this list who isn’t a drinking buddy of yours?”

  Stephen looked a little put out by my outburst—too used to me sitting quietly in these meetings, maybe. “Clara, look,” he said, “maybe next year we could...”

  “No,” I interrupted, a forceful edge entering my voice for the first time. “I want to go this year. You and Adrian have been skiving off at these events for three years now. Well, it’s time for a change. Don’t make me talk to Dale.”

  Dale Hatley was the operations manager, and the Call Center fell under his remit. He was a fifty something year old man who rarely put in an appearance on our floor, but he’d always had a bit of a thing for me—patting my bottom as he showed me out of his office, staring at my flat chest when he thought I wouldn’t notice. It used to bother me, but now it no longer did. He was a harmless, middle-aged man whose wife had left him, and I could use his infatuation with me to get what I wanted. Another change.

  The prospect of bringing Dale into this was enough to win the argument. Everyone knew that he was a bit weird around me. It caused a lot of laughter whenever he came into the Call Center to speak to me, but nobody was laughing now.

  “Party’s over guys,” I said, standing up and preparing to leave the room. “Send me all the details on Manchester, and tell your Facebook friends it’s time to get back to work.”

  Adrian and Stephen looked stunned as I opened the door. “One more thing,” I said, looking back over my shoulder. “Add Parker to the list. It’s time she got out of the office and put those inter-personal skills of hers to use. I’ll let you know who else I want.”

  Chapter 6

  Indian food was never my thing, but I was a new me, trying out new things, so I dug in to my lamb curry as if it were a favorite dish. It was eleven in the evening and we’d checked into the Travel Lodge after dropping off all the equipment we’d need for tomorrow’s user-group. Hotels didn’t get any cheaper than the Travel Lodge, and there was no prospect of the company springing for rooms at the four star hotel where we’d booked the following day’s event.

  “Cheap beer, cheap food, and cheap, shitty rooms,” Parker said. “Sounds like a typical Saturday night on the town to me.” My Saturday nights were usually spent at home, alone, watching re-runs of Casualty or ER, so I couldn’t really comment.

  Chloe, Keira, Parker and I were representing the Call Center, and Malcolm was from IT. He was supposed to answer any technical questions that us Call Center girls couldn’t handle, but he had the inter-personal skills of a donkey, so I didn’t expect much help from that quarter. No, it was a girls show tomorrow—no real men allowed.

  The drive up from London had been an eye opener. I’d never socialized with any of the girls before, and they turned out to be more fun than I thought they’d be. Keira drove her husband’s X5, which had more than enough room for all five of us, as well as the boxes and supplies. We’d talked about men—a first for me—and I’d told them that I’d dumped Phillip only he didn’t know it yet.

  “Was he a crap shag or what?” Parker said, genuinely interested.

  “Well, let’s just say he didn’t put a lot of effort into it,” I answered, being as vague as possible. How was I to know if he was a crap shag or not? It’s not as if I had anything to compare him to—yet. Maybe Phillip’s quicky up against the door was a screw of legendary proportions, something to write home to Mother about, or maybe it was the tawdry fumblings of a forty three year old virgin. Only time would tell—but not too much time, I hoped.

  “You’re well shot of him,” she said. “He was old, and it’s not as if he had any money to sweeten the pot.”

  Phillip had accompanied me to the Christmas party a few weeks earlier, and to say he hadn’t fitted in would be an understatement. We’d left early, after the dancing began.

  “So I’m available,” I said, putting myself forward in a way I never would have dreamed of only last week. “If you see any hot guys, send them my way.”

  “If you’re serious, leave it me.” she said. “I’ll find you a stud who can make you forget all about the boring Mr. Chips.”

  The rest of the drive had been filled with stories of dumped boyfriends and orally challenged husbands. Poor Malcolm had his head buried in a book for the entire journey, and probably wished he could open the car door and fall out. I sympathized, but not enough to change the tenor of the conversation—I’d no idea I was missing out on so much. Parker had given one of the sales guys a blow job in the photocopy room, in the middle of the day while everyone was working in the office only feet away, and Chloe was a lesbian who went on the pull every Friday and Saturday night to all sorts of gay bars around London.

  It was nine thirty in the evening when we reached Manchester, and it took us a good hour to find the hotel, drop off the boxes for the next day, and then track down our cheap Travel Lodge. The only good thing about it was that it was close to the center of town—the Indian restaurant was only a two minute walk, and according to Parker there were lively clubs and bars within walking distance. In the past, I would have retired immediately with a book, but those days were gone—now I was eager to see some of those clubs and bars.

  “So, here we are in a strange city, miles from home, and husbands, and dumped boyfriends,” I said. “Where should we go next?” Parker seemed to be the expert, so I addressed the question to her.

  “Well, if we’re going to get you laid, there’s a club I know that heaves on a Thursday. Who’s up for it?”

  Keira begged off, citing recent sleepless nights with the baby, and Malcolm—as expected—opted to retire to his room for some time alone with his laptop.

  “Sorry ladies,” Chloe said. “But I’m all about the pussy, and I have a date with a different sort of club. Don’t misbehave too much.” She stood up, dropped fifteen pounds on to the table to pay for her portion of the meal, and headed for the door.

  “Looks like it’s just you and me, Clara,” Parker said. “Are you sure you’re up for this? It’s not exactly your scene.”

  “My scene has changed.” I leaned over the table and ran a finger over her hand. “You said you’d get me laid tonight, and I’m going to hold you to that. I’m the boss, remember. You have to do what I say.”

  “Let’s go then.” She sounded excited.

  Chapter 7

  We were dancing together as if we were lovers, blonde and brunette flowing with the music, hips moving seductively, bodies intertwined with each other, hands moving down backs, over hips and thighs. Parker was about five inches taller than me and her body was full and voluptuous. She was wearing a tanned sleeveless dress that didn’t quite reach her knees. I’d removed my glasses and let her lead, responding to the movements of her body.

  “Guys love a show,” she’d said earlier. “Two hot girls doing their thing. It’ll drive them wild. Trust me.” I did. I wasn’t sure if we were friends yet, but our relationship had changed since the previous week. She really was a fun person to be around.

  Within a few minutes the first of many supplicants appeared and danced next to us, trying to draw us out, away from each other and into their embrace. But Parker wasn’t willing to accept just anyone. If they didn’t meet her standards, she barely gave them a glance, continuing to gyrate against me, shaking her head when I looked like I might turn around and face the guys.

  It was a good half hour before the two foreign looking men appeared. They danced together until they reached us—something no English guys would do—then circled slowly, dancing for us, trying to lure us in. This time, Parker didn’t ignore them. She moved us between them, and turned me to face the tallest of the two. He was huge, well over six feet, and he wore a plain white t-shirt that showed off the muscles of his arms and abdomen. I’d guess he was in his mid-twenties and he loomed over me as we danced, his musky scent flooding my senses. I let him take over
from Parker, moving his hands over me, resting my head on the expanse of his chest. We danced for minutes or hours—I couldn’t tell. When he kissed me I felt like I’d arrived in heaven. There was none of the fumbling and groping that I’d come to expect from Phillip. This man knew what I wanted. A heat spread over my body as he nibbled at my lips, tasting me and touching me, licking my neck and pressing himself against me. I thought briefly of the man on the tube train last week, but this was nothing like that. There was no insistent cock using my back for kicks. This was a real man, and I wanted him.

  Parker tapped me on the shoulder, waking me from the hazy daze that I was in. “We’re going back to their place,” she said, smiling at me. I nodded my head, barely hearing her above the music.

  “This is Niko,” she said, nodding to the guy behind her. “And the stud muffin you’re glued to is Goran. They’re from Croatia.”

  “Where?”

  “Goran! Croatia!” she said, shouting to be heard above the music.

  I barely remember the cab journey back to their flat. I was sitting on Goran’s lap, letting him kiss me and hold me, and Parker and the other guy—Niko—were busy on the seat next to us.

  I didn’t know Manchester, but I could tell that we’d driven into a bad part of town. The cab dropped us off outside a four story, old fashioned, tenement style building, and we had to step around black rubbish bags to reach the door. I hoped there weren’t any dead bodies in those bags, but it was too late to back out now—not that I really wanted to. Goran had his arm around my waist and he almost carried me up the steps and through the door.