Receptionist Thrill by Robert Scott Leyse

Receptionist Thrill

by Robert Scott Leyse

A receptionist is often responsible for the first impression that a new visitor forms of a place of business. Therefore receptionists are often hired according to whether they are charming, tactful, and attractive. A tastefully provocative manner of dress, subtle yet memorable perfume, cascades of hair, slender and shapely figure, cute face, natural grace, and soothing voice: all of these are characteristics of the quintessential receptionist type. I've never been on a blind date nor wished to be -- I'm disinclined to trust others' ideas of what comeliness and personality is and insist on knowing beforehand with whom I'm going to seek to have the best of times; but if someone were to say so-and-so of a beauty worked as a receptionist and was up for a blind date I'd be sorely tempted to go on my first one. The odds are she'd truly be attractive, sweet-dispositioned, and lively. But enough prelude -- my tale concerns my friend Steven and the happy association he was privileged to have with one Caroline Yost, receptionist at a San Francisco temp agency. Steven relates the following:

So one afternoon I was late for an appointment at a temp agency downtown. I'd just stepped from Market Street onto Montgomery and was approaching the building in which the agency was housed; I happened to glance through the plate glass window of one of the ground-level businesses and saw the most demure of brunettes sitting at a desk, with her chin resting on her hands and waves of hair framing her face. She appeared to be engaged in pleasing thoughts; suddenly her eyelids rose and she was returning my glance -- it was one of those special moments when two strangers are suddenly and unexpectedly in sync from a distance -- a shared flare of light in the eyes, instantaneous identification with a cast of expression. For not above two or three seconds we'd each seized an interval of shared safety: it was safe to allow our eyes to brighten together -- safe to share a flash of regard. But as I continued to stroll the play of light on the window altered, effectively obscuring her face -- and then I was in the lobby of the building, smiling on account of our momentary communion even while already letting it go, with no reason to believe there would ever be any further communication with the girl. I stated my purpose to the guard and was directed towards the right, where I was told the agency could be entered. No sooner did I open the door than I was facing the brunette again, who immediately broke into a warm smile.

What a smile! Such ripe lips, expressive lines about her mouth! And the way one of her hands, as if of its own accord, flung itself into her hair and flicked back a cluster of playful curls! Her eyes beamed with blitheness -- she almost seemed to be laughing with delight -- she was squirming about in her seat, animated with the same sort of quivering impatience that cats are when they're about to be fed. I'd had little sleep following an extended bout of merrymaking with friends -- I'd awakened in a state of good cheer and, curiously enough, alertness and could sense my blood surging to compensate for the abuse I'd done to my body. I'd noticed the lateness of the hour and everything from that point onward had been unbroken haste, from the shower and getting dressed to the dashes up and down the BART train steps; and then I'd walked a few blocks at a brisk pace. So I was flushed with the effort of physical exertion, riding a small swell of the sort of euphoria joggers speak of: I felt safe in it -- it was a love-of-life frame of mind: the perfect frame of mind to be in while suddenly facing this cute, playful, smiling brunette.

She made it so easy for me! It was as if that brief interlocking of our eyes while I was still outside had, as far as she was concerned, already concluded matters. At first I thought that she thought that I, encouraged by our exchanged glance, had come inside to seek to follow up on it. But, no: she showed not the slightest trace of surprise when I stated that I'd come to register with the agency, had an appointment with the Director, and gave my name.

"Well, you're a little late, Mr. Bergendahl!" she said with amusement while continuing to search me with her blithe eyes.

"My alarm didn't go off -- I got here as quickly as I could -- I'm very willing to wait until she can fit me in," I replied.

"Hmmm -- might be hours," she responded with a sly look while making as if to flick through the appointment book and examine all the pages; but she wasn't really examining the pages, and started laughing again, taking the opportunity to toss her head back, smooth her hair away from her temples with both hands, and display the beauty of her face. I was standing so close, almost at her left shoulder, that it was as if I was falling into the smooth clarity of her complexion -- as if I was being pulled into the ripples of feeling within the immaculate contours of her forehead, cheeks, mouth, and neck: vibrant life, pristine pure as a mountain spring, was swishing and whispering there -- as compelling and unseizeable as a flash of joy seen from across a crowded room in a young girl's eyes. During this display, her eyes were at first focused upon the ceiling; then, in a split second, she trained them upon and, as it were, caught me -- caught me expressing unreserved admiration with every muscle of my face. "Uuummm," she purred as if unconsciously while shifting her weight forward and sitting tantalizingly erect in her chair; her was body tightening inward on itself, gathering its resources and radiating energy. Yes, I could feel the focused insistence of yearning within her and was becoming tense and immobile in my own turn: our shared condition of alertness was humming in the space of air between us, leaving neither of us a place to run or hide. And then she effectively sealed both of our fates by darting her hand forward, again as if unconsciously, and very gently -- oh so gently -- placing her fingers on my wrist: a swift spark, inner twitch of recognition, swept from my wrist to my spine, raced up and down my back, and brought about an electrifying sensation of vertigo in the pit of my stomach; her eyes brightened further, and she sighed: I'm certain that, had we been alone in a room instead of on public display in a reception area, we would've been pulled into each others arms without seeming to have much say in the matter.

The manner in which two people, complete strangers minutes before, can suddenly be facing each other in mutual transparency has never ceased to enthrall me: it's as if a will, separate from their individual wills, has taken matters into its own hands and is directing the proceedings regardless of their consent. Ha, not that I've ever dreamed of wishing to resist when placed in such a situation! But, very often, the surroundings in which such a situation flowers into being impose outer restraint; inner restraint, however, is another matter: it was as if Caroline and I were making love subliminally: sitting so close, with our fingers intertwined by now -- myself caressing the palm of her hand clasping mine: the thrilling transmission of trembly, eager, vital energy. And then she was, so to speak, frisking about the room: standing to retrieve a fax, stretching to reach for a container of floppys on an upper shelf: the metallic sheen of her emerald skirt swishing about her slenderness -- her dark curls bouncing in the sunlight -- her red, succulent, infinitely mobile lips by turns pursed into a coquettish pout, open with randy invitation, gently twisted into the slyest of inviting smiles. There's nothing like a woman in the full flowering of her beauty who's in a state of arousal and chafing against restraint imposed by circumstances of surrounding.

We had a full fifteen minutes together (my appointment with the Director being postponed somewhat on account of my tardiness) in that bright sunlit room that was open to the view of all passersby on the sidewalk outside. Caroline and I got to know each other from the inside out, in the exchanging-of-nerves meaning of the term -- we more than familiarized ourselves with the promises of the magnetism coursing between us -- we'd delight in taking readings on each other: as when we'd step up close to converse about something mainly so that we could gaze into each other's eyes at close quarters again, feel our inner surge rise and break again, thrill to the force of shared stimulation again, embrace below the surface again.

I saw the Director of the agency; she, being no fool (considering my degree of experience on the proofreading circuit and the fact that I'd doubtless make her agency plenty of money from satisfied clients), signed me up. On my way out, I reaffirmed the agreement that the lovely Caroline and I had already reached: I'd return at six, when her shift was over, so that we could go about the important business of becoming further acquainted. Such is the manner in which I met Caroline Yost, and our association began.

II.

I feel I could spend days and days speaking of the month which followed, in happy remembrance of the period when we could barely endure half a day apart -- when I passed every waking hour turned inward on the picture of Caroline that I carried in my heart and imagination, the joyful lingering nerve-reverberations following each breathtakingly vibrant encounter. Certainly I'd be very happy to shut myself up in my apartment for a week and write a novella in which I describe the manner in which we became acquainted, such that we could easily complete each other's sentences and read one another's thoughts. What joy it would be to relive that month! -- our steady acquisition of unbounded trust, the amount of secretive playfulness that rapidly became a characteristic of our relationship! But I've, on account of a great amount of work responsibilities (I'm no longer a happy-go-lucky temp), not the time for such indulgences.

We were always teasing, baiting, and challenging one another. We were constantly seeking to outdo each other in playfulness. We felt ourselves under an obligation to be clever for each other -- wordplay games were one of our greatest delights and a source of pride: if one of us dared become predictable in this department, the other would immediately pounce with relish; a cascade of raillery would descend. Oh, always lovingly administered, with only our shared happiness in mind.

Say I'm at Caroline's apartment (an indescribably cheerful apartment, with white wood flooring, white ceilings, white walls -- white walls except for two of them, which were mirrors from floor to ceiling -- always fresh flowers in the crystal vases -- family heirloom furniture, with a colorful history attached to each piece -- a Girl apartment, from the vague scent of perfume and obvious scent of flowers to the pink bedspread to the fashion magazines strewn about the floor to the immaculately clean bathroom and kitchen -- an apartment almost as bright, cheerful, and playful as Caroline herself). So anyway, I'm at her apartment: we've been kissing hard and long enough for our jawbones to be sore at the joints and for my facial hair (no matter how close and frequently a man shaves, there's always enough remaining to irritate a girl's delicate skin) to have left a red tinge on her chin; a few of my fingers ache on account of prolonged oral stimulation activities; she's declared that her behind has been slapped and clawed very thoroughly and that she's also feeling very rubbed raw inside; but are either of us inclined to sleep? Not at all! Aching jaw or not -- aching fingers or not -- exhaustion or not... Ha, exhaustion? Exhaustion only seems to operate on one level at a time when one's with the girl of one's dreams; and it's easily countermanded by the excitement that continues to surge in one's veins at the sight of her -- sight of her fluid, soft, flushed, hungry whiteness rippling in the overhead light.

Nights spent with Caroline Yost, during that first month, never seemed to end: there was foreplay, frolic, and postplay: several cycles of the three, strung one after the other. The teasing -- the delightful wordplay games -- never ceased. So I'm at her apartment and we really ought to be feeling flogged nigh to death and in need of sleep; instead, the following exchange ensues:

"Missy Yost's ass is toast!" I shout before springing from underneath a blanket on the opposite side of the bed with a growl, attacking her behind with slaps, grabs, and mock bites.

"Miss Yostess delivers the mostess!" she says while undulating the said behind amidst bouts of giggling.

"Miss Yostess is a damn fine hostess!" I reply. "She'll please now present me with some fine roses -- rosy pink splotches -- a pair of well slapped and rounded globes -- yes! Ms. Yost certainly has an ass to boast of and that she always makes the most of -- lovely swat-reddened silken melons! Mauled ass, a flurry of passes! Ha ha! Carol-Brat, another pass I make -- I'm a honeysucker, a flowerprober, a pussyslurper!"

"Honey, allow me to lift the honeypot higher," she says while raising herself to her knees. "Please do help yourself to my honey, Honey! I so much want to squeal like a well-plowed kitty -- a roughed-up and ruffled Persian Princess! Messy up Missy's fur, please! Make Missy Yostess all slippery scrumptious, turn her inside out!"

I flip onto my back, ease myself underneath her, flick my tongue between her legs, often pausing to continue bantering. "That's it, Missy Yost with the most wenchalaciously juicy pink honeypot -- ha ha ha! So lissome and wenchsome, with a ripe twatsome running moist with hot juice! Honey's honeypot spilling nectar nutrition -- ooooo! Ha ha ha!" I become incoherent with laughter for maybe as long as a minute.

"More wench to the bench!" says Caroline, adding, "Takes a skilled wench to unscrew Stevie's nuts and get his tap turned on -- oh, what floods then! Wench gets thoroughly drenched!"

"Plenty of wench to the bench in a lust-thirst clench!" I shout while wrapping my arms about her thighs, wrestling her onto her side, advancing higher. Soon we're embracing with all our might while engaged in yet another jaw-straining kiss -- tongues caressing each other, reveling in their slickness. Following several minutes, I briefly come up for air: "Wench City! Glory be to Wench City -- Hottie Heaven -- all these Darling Dolly hills and dales!" I'm caressing her breasts with my cheeks now, nipping at her belly -- her hands are grasping my shoulders -- fingers are doing something with my hair -- her tongue's in one of my ears -- she's breathing deeply, rhythmically, into said ear -- I'm tingling -- she's purring...

"So," I say while suddenly raising myself to my knees and disentangling myself from her arms, "it's generally acknowledged that nectar's one of the high energy foods. Hummingbirds, with one of the highest metabolisms in the animal kingdom, could only exist because of nectar -- it's no accident that they're constantly sipping flowers: they'd be unable to fly, fall to the ground, and die without flowers to sip! Nectar's the ticket for high energy! Nectar's the ultimate health food for the active! And, well, I consider myself quite active -- oh, I'm a thirsty hummingbird in need of sustenance for sure! So let me at your nectar-rich flower, Honey! Spread and show me the honey! I'll die without some sweet, nutrition-packed, energy-dispensing nectar! Give me the nectar, Sweetie!" So saying, I place my face between her legs again. "Uuummm, so muffalaciously good!"

"Yes indeed, Stevie Sweet! All hummingbird needs to do is ask, and Mommy feeds! Wench drenches, nectar's always on tap!"

* * *

I fear the example given above only vaguely approximates the degree to which Caroline and I prodded and baited each other throughout our nights together. I'd need to acquire a great deal more skill as an orator to fully do one of those nights justice -- communicate the succession of caresses, kisses, probings -- the way we'd fall into the expressions of each other's eyes, conjure looks of childlike wonder from one another -- the ceaseless barrage of teasing, sheer delight in the language of body and mind alike. I'm tempted to make another attempt to fully capture the atmosphere of one of our all nighters, but will resist the temptation.

III.

I'll conclude by detailing one of our more public exploits. One Wednesday morning, after having slept very soundly and for longer than usual, we not only awakened in the highest of spirits but with a great deal of excess energy on our hands. There was Caroline with her beautiful head pushed deep into the pillow, blithe eyes and laughing lips demanding kiss after kiss -- kisses I eagerly dispensed. Kissing gave way to pillow and blanket fights; we were definitely of a mind to play all day. But then, it being a weekday morning, the specter of work arrived to spoil our fun. It was easy enough for me to phone my temp agencies and inform them I'd already been booked for the day; but what good was my skipping work if Caroline had to report to her job? Of course, she could phone in sick but, as undeniably wild and reckless as she was, she was also inherently responsible and disliked playing hooky, especially at this late hour when her employer would need to scramble for a replacement. On the other hand, it was such a shame to waste our riotous mood and thirst for frolic: the thought of being apart for the whole day struck us as being cruel and unusual punishment carried to its extreme.

"Jobs are garbage!" I recall myself declaring as we were both stepping into the shower. "After all, here we are: two adults in the prime of life, with our juices running hot and this whole day before us, and this day doesn't belong to us! Soon you'll be at the office -- later I'll probably be proofreading somewhere: it's an unpardonable waste, a sick disgrace, joke in the worst of tastes! No more of this (I grasp and squeeze one of her soap-slickened globes.) until later this evening! I might be dead of sex-starvation by then!"

The simple act of grasping Caroline's immaculate ass, on account of the degree of pleasure derived, flings me headlong into more intimate activities; soon we're intertwined on the floor of the shower with the warm water streaming over us. More diatribes against the working week and interruption of fun are indulged in; by the time we emerge from the shower we've decided that we aren't going to tolerate being deprived of each other's company, and will spend the day together regardless of the fact that she's going to work.

As I've said, it was an easy matter for me to phone my temp agencies and inform them I was unavailable for new assignments on account of already being booked. Of course, the fact that Caroline happened to work at one of my agencies and that I was going to accompany her there presented a slight complication, in the event I was sighted by the Director or someone else who might recognize me: I'd simply inform them I was resting up for a week-long assignment at a place known to be extremely hectic. So I made my phone calls and obtained my freedom. Thereafter, we dressed, ate breakfast, and hopped a cab to Caroline's place of employment.

We arrived at Caroline's workplace ahead of most of the others: it wasn't difficult for me to slip underneath her desk without being seen. As she'd said, there was a surprisingly accommodating amount of space underneath this desk -- it was almost as if it had been designed with concealment of a lover in mind. Built from the floor up, there was no possibility of glancing under it except from the back and, even then, portions were still concealed from view: there were hollow spaces behind the two sets of drawers which flanked the seat of the user and if one crawled into either of these spaces one could only be discovered if someone got down on their knees and poked their head inside.

So there I was: underneath my sweetheart's desk in the reception area of a well-known and respected temp agency, as her workday progressed. She was cheerfully performing her receptionist duties -- screening and redirecting calls, greeting and bantering with visitors -- while thrusting her legs as far inside the desk as she could. What a view I had! She was wearing the knee-length pleated aquamarine skirt -- one of my favorites -- with nothing underneath and her legs were spread as far as the confines of the desk's interior would allow: how can I fully communicate the effect of this sight upon me, combined with the effect of my being hidden under her desk in a busy office? The symmetry and softness of Caroline's thighs -- the moist flower between them -- the sound of her voice engaged in conversing, in a very professional tone, with some new arrival! Ha, I was wildly atingle before even so much as beginning to enjoy the bounties spread before me; the simple act of running my hands up and down her calves and squeezing her thighs was good for a great deal of seeming to melt from the inside out -- much of the pleasure due to the fact that I was often obliged to bite my lips and place a hand over my mouth to prevent myself from erupting with laughter. What more heady combination is there than a delicious cutie joyfully making herself accessible in a place where very few would suspect such is possible? where others in the immediate vicinity haven't the faintest idea of what's transpiring? The juxtaposition, the contrast! The daring, the delight! The turning inside out with glee like a child hidden in a candy store and gorging himself while adults come and go! Damn! Words are unequal to the task of encompassing the amount of bliss I was under the influence of!

And when I finally (after intentionally putting it off and savoring both the sight of her and the situation) plunged my face between Caroline's thighs and flicked at her warm wetness with my tongue! How gratifying to drink of her nectar in that office environment! -- to tease her love-bud with the tip of my tongue while stroking her slippery canal with my fingers -- to coax her towards consummation, teasingly bring her closer and closer, only to suddenly impose a delay; and then to finally nudge her over, bring about that special inner upwelling, sigh of release. People would come and go or the phone would ring; my dearest would be obliged to speak to them, seek to conceal her state of arousal with a flatness of vocal tone; I'd be doing my best to get her voice to tremble and crack: it was a contest we were both well aware of despite the fact that not a word had been exchanged on the subject: we had many laughs about it afterwards.

On a couple of occasions Caroline, on account of being face to face with the Director or some other person of importance, was obliged to rap on the top of my head with her hand: I immediately understood that I was to temporarily halt my efforts at stimulation, and did so; then she'd nudge at me with a leg and I'd resume. And -- ha ha! -- again I must mention the times I was obliged to bite my lips to stifle impending howls of laughter at the same time that I was intent upon continuing to undermine her composure and convulse her with pleasure. Nor to leave out when I later stroked myself into blissful spurtings while admiring the symmetry of her legs and slippery pink of her parted petals. I don't think I exaggerate when I insist that a man can seldom expect to enjoy as much sustained -- indeed, steadily increasing -- sexual gratification as I did on that cheerful morning spent sating my hunger and contenting my imagination and indulging the jokester in me under my adored's desk as she answered the phone, greeted visitors, and chatted with coworkers.

Yes, to hell with the Mile High Club! The club that really matters is the Under a Receptionist's Desk During Business Hours Club! Let's see how many funloving souls can become members of the latter!

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Robert Scott Leyse was born in San Francisco, grew up in various locales about America, lived in Paris for a spell, and now resides on Manhattan's Upper East Side. Upon arrival in Manhattan he lived in several East Village dumps and worked as a New York cab driver on the night shift, with the aim of atoning for a sheltered upbringing and having adventures the likes of which he'd never had before and he wasn't disappointed; subsequently he acquired over a dozen years of experience in the legal field, where he was pleasantly surprised to find that additional adventures, of the office politics and shenanigans variety, were to be had; presently he works in the advertising field, where he's not looking for any special adventures, having decided to keep work separate from fun and games and have secrets that are easier to keep. He skis in Sun Valley, Idaho, surfs with board and body in southern California and Puerto Rico, once took a belly dance class in Green Bay, Wisconsin, and the most incandescent yoga class he’s ever had was on a stand-up paddle board in Condado Lagoon during a furious rainstorm. He eats fish heads and insects and drinks blood, but can’t be paid to eat potato chips or cake.

His three novels are: Liaisons for Laughs: Angie & Ella’s Summer of Delirium (July, 2009), Self-Murder (April, 2010), and Attraction and Repulsion (June, 2011). His two novellas are Penelope Prim and Tallulah Tempest (both February, 2015). The latter was originally intended to be a send-up of volatile relationships but turned out to be an appreciation and celebration of them instead: sometimes a tale decides where it wishes to go, the author be damned. Forthcoming are collections of short stories, epigrams, and more novellas.

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Correspondence:
rsleyse [AT] gmail [DOT] com