Trapped in the lift with...
Thirty-eight years since the Baseball National League last played a Semi-Final in our humble little stadium, and you never saw an office building empty-out so fast on a Friday.
Me, I had to clear a backlog of paperwork after a serious two-day system breakdown, and it all had to be ready for the MD when he came in at 7am on the Saturday. No baseball for me tonight.
I heard the usual sounds of the security staff locking up, and reckoned I might be the only one left in the building. Some people might find it scary, but it suited me fine. It was the kind of repetitive work that you can get through a lot faster without interruptions. Still, it was nearly eight before I finally had all the stuff printed and collated in its neat piles.
There wasn't a sound to be heard anywhere in the building, except the discreet hum of our brand-new elevator ascending all the way up to the twelfth floor, confirming my feeling that I would be the last one out. I stepped in and pressed G, and down it went again. At about the ninth, it began to slow, and I guessed it was a glitch in the new system. (We'd been warned about teething troubles.) But to my surprise, we came to a stop, the doors opened, and in walked the Facilities Manager, Grace Marvinson. Of course, I'd forgotten that she too would have a paperwork backlog to clear...
Now Grace was not one of my favourite people. She was grimly ambitious, completely unsociable and a radical feminist plus, plus. We often found ourselves at the same meetings, where this large square-built woman would present a severe front, trying to fob me off with one-syllable answers if she could, never once looking me in the eye - clearly trying to distance herself from me altogether.
Friendly chat, then, was not too likely to happen during the thirty-odd seconds of our descent to the Ground floor.
Except... it turned out to be a bit more than thirty seconds.
I remember noticing that the door made an unusual scr****g sound as it closed. Then, as the elevator started to go down, there was a heavy shudder and a loud screech of steel on steel, before it jammed tight in the shaft. The silence that followed, and the dangerous smell of scorched metal, was almost more alarming than the incident itself. But at least we were connected to the front-reception by internal phone through a handset on the wall.
"I'll do this" I said.
I pressed the red button, and waited for the Night Porter to answer - that was Big Steve, also not one of my favourite people. Gambling addict, who'd managed to hack into the firm's credit-account and got away with quite a few thousand. Don't know why they gave him a second chance...
"This is Littenberg Holdings, front reception. There is no-one here at the moment. But please leave your name..."
The bastard! Obviously gone skiving off to the ball-game.
Never mind, I had my mobile, so we were not without a lifeline. Was it meant to be the Fire Service or the local authority? Maybe just dial the emergency code and ask there. But then a terrible realisation hit home. Since they'd installed the new cabling in the shaft, nobody could get a signal for their mobile.
"We've... got a problem" I said, preferring not to catch her eye at this moment of indecision.
"What do we do?" asked Grace in a curiously panicky tone that I had never heard before.
I tried shouting for help, but it just echoed up and down the many floors. I could tell there was no-one else here. "The Night Porter's not in, and I don't know when he'll be back. I think we may have... a bit of a wait."
Now she spoke with rising hysteria. "But we can't just stay here. I'm... I'm... seriously claustrophobic."
The sight and sound of Grace Marvinson turning vulnerable for the first time threw me into a state of sudden emotional turmoil. Instinctively I put a protective arm round her, and experienced a violent gust of sexual feeling - for this big shapeless woman I had never even begun to think of in a sexual way before.
She was still trying to hang on to a few shreds of her normal dignity and self-control, but it was a losing battle. Her eyes were tight shut, obviously trying to close-out the whole experience. "No, no, no...!" she started to murmur.
I hugged her closer, suddenly conscious that she was my responsibility, perhaps for many hours. Claustrophobia, eh? Thank God it wasn't something I suffered from. But I'd heard it could be unbearable, and I felt for her deeply. Somehow I must try to distract her from that terrifying sensation of being shut-in. The only possible solution was startlingly clear. I must lift her into that other state of being, where we forget normal life, and lose all track of time...
"Grace, listen. We're going to get through this. Better if you keep your eyes shut for now. Remember - you are not in a closed space.... You are not in a closed space... You and I are floating free... floating free..."
And I drew her gently to the floor. Now she gave a little shiver, and I had a strong feeling that her bladder had given way - confirmed by a slight odour that I found distinctly arousing. "Eyes shut, remember. You are not in a closed space..."
Now I unbuttoned her skirt and peeled off her damp tights. The scent of her pipi acted on me like a d**g, sweet and sour, with its sharp hint of intimacy. I moved my lips straight to her fountain and tasted the golden glory.
Incredibly, she was responding to this, with a slight moaning. The fearsome ball-breaker Grace Marvinson, for God's sake. Could this be happening, or was it a dream?
I sucked at the special spot, then moved on to touching and titillating. By now I was ready, and it seemed that she was too, so I entered her slowly and started to move gently inside her.
"Floating free... Floating free... Far up in the sky... Right up to heaven..."
Yes, it was working. I think I even made out the word "Darling..." as she started to manifest.
Now I knew what had to be done. This woman had to be kept in her present state of ecstatic oblivion until whatever time someone came to our rescue. And I was facing a serious marathon challenge.
Was this how the young gigolos felt as they performed their duty for the wrinkled and gnarled old widows? I'd heard a cynical report of how it was done. To get it up, imagine she's somebody young and gorgeous. Then to delay ejaculation, think about cold tea.
I tried the first idea, silently mouthing "Britney, Britney... Paris, Paris..." That kept me going for a bit. Then I remembered someone had sent me the link to a website that listed all the celebrities who enjoyed rear action. That had become an intriguing fantasy - some distinctly classy ladies who liked to be worshipped in their little secret passage, spunk in their angel-shit. (Butter wouldn't melt, as Marlon put it.)
By now I too had lost track of time, but I was also finding a strange thing. This was actually not turning out to be a duty at all. I found I was getting a serious kick out of turning this ball-breaker into a real woman of loving passions. Couldn't believe that it was suddenly all mine, the intimacy of her stockinged feet, her forbidden fleshy buttocks, the scent of her hair, the strong square shoulders, the surprisingly pretty bosom, now revealed for the first time, the voice softening into lovingness...
No longer was I having to fantasize about showbiz beauties. I was fantasizing about the Grace Marvinson I had always known, as though I was lying under that board-table, tasting her glory below the surface, while she made cool, rational executive statements above my head. Fantasy and reality had merged - and she was clearly liking the outcome. I couldn't always make out the words, but she was definitely not wanting this to end.
After an interval of I don't how long, I turned her over and tasted her in the tail. She placed a hand on my head, signalling for me to come inside her again. At first I took her normally, but from behind. Then I told her I was going to switch holes. I don't know how I could tell she was an anal virgin, but she was clearly unaccustomed to it, and of course, we had no lube.
I couldn't tell whether her frenzied cries were pain or pleasure, but I was destined never to find out.
For we could hear footsteps approaching on the stairs, and the sound of Big Steve's voice. "Hey, where are you?"
"In the elevator" I shouted. "Between eighth and ninth."
We heard the big key in the outer door, just above our head, and waited while it was slowly winched open. The opening was quite close, and we were able to clamber through.
My first instinct was to curse Steve roundly for being such an irresponsible slob, absent from his post in an emergency.
My second instinct was to thank him after all. Friend and a b*****r...