Plus One(10)

By: Aleatha Romig

Stripping out of my blouse, I look at my reflection in the mirror and shake my head.

“Nice entrance, Kimbra,” I murmur. “Face the fact. It’s going to be you and Darrin McKinney or Mr. Blow-up, or…” I say with all the sarcasm I can muster. “… maybe you can sit at the kids’ table. You’ve put it all off for too long. You are out of options.”

My chest heaves with the crushing weight of my impending fate. My white lace bra barely contains my DD breasts as I attempt to fill my lungs with a strengthening breath. Carefully, I lower my blouse under a cool stream of water. As I gently rub the stain, the spot begins to fade.

Things begin to look up, until…

“Yes, in here…” A woman’s voice coos near the bathroom door.


“Of course,” I mumble, clenching my damp blouse to my bare stomach and quietly slipping into one of the stalls. As I shut the door, the outside door crashes open.

“O-oh,” the female voice pants. “Y-yes. Let me show you.”

I shake my head. Really? It isn’t bad enough that I have the whole mother-wedding thing and I nearly showered Mr. Willis with my hot coffee, now I get to listen to two people getting it on in a bathroom.

“A-ah, God…”

Silently, I sit on the toilet and hold my wet blouse on my lap. I might as well get comfortable and try to ignore what’s happening beyond the stall.

I could hum, but it might not be their song. I could try to think about something else. What color dress would I like to buy?

“Oh. Oh!”

Should it be short or long? Sleeves or no?


It’s only the woman who’s speaking.

Though my mind is doing its best to ignore the audible and disturbingly erotic scene, my body isn’t following suit. My breathing quickens as I force myself to imagine dresses suitable for an Indiana spring wedding.

What are Scarlett’s colors? I try to remember. My diversionary tactics aren’t working.

The commotion beyond the stall becomes louder. More sounds… more breathing.

Holy shit! Whoever they are, they’re going at it.

My wrist vibrates, alerting me to emails or text messages. Ignoring that, I notice it’s only a little after eight in the morning. I’m not a prude. I’m not against morning sex, just not in the company bathroom!

The breathing gets heavier. Groans.

My core clenches and mind wavers between sweet bliss and indignation.

I should stop this. I work in HR. What is happening outside this stall is definitely against company policy. And at the same time, it’s hot as shit. Besides, I can’t exactly run out in my bra and yell stop! Maybe this is the diversion I need from my sucky life. This will give me something to fantasize about during my upcoming shitty weekend.

I close my eyes and visualize the scene to go along with the sounds.

I haven’t heard the man’s voice yet, just his breathing.

From beneath the stall the female’s legs bend. Blue pumps and a skirt come into view as she falls to her knees.

Oh shit! “No!” I scream mentally.

The sound of a zipper echoes throughout the tile bathroom.

“Don’t do it,” I plead mentally. “Don’t do it.”

My mind may be disapproving, but the hotter it gets, the more my body agrees. I’m a little ashamed to admit, the sounds alone are turning me on. Wetness builds between my legs as I give in and allow my imagination to take over. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m squeezing my thighs together, tighter and tighter.

A growl echoes through the bathroom. A growl…

Holy mother!

The growl rumbles through me, deep and primitive. Oh sweet Jesus. That’s erotic.

I stifle a whimper and press my thighs as tight as they’ll go. Taking a deep breath, I shift my body, praying for a little relief, but the readjustment makes my red pumps scrape the tile floor.

“Shit,” the man’s voice resonates through the small bathroom. My heart stills and eyes open wide.

“I-is someone in here?” the woman asks. No longer seductive, her voice holds an edge of panic.

Commotion—moving zippers and fabric straightening as well as the woman’s heels and man’s shoes against the floor. Without another word, they’re gone.

He only said one word, but I know that voice. And those men’s shoes.

I stand and place my forehead against the stall door as the twisting in my groin moves upward to my stomach. With my wet blouse still in my grasp and my wet panties beneath my skirt, I picture the man who just growled. Behind my closed eyes, I see his wide shoulders, his trim waist, the way his pleated trousers hang over his big cock and surround his round ass.

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