Gray weekdays
The workday began as usual, already stretching rubbery minutes into long hours. Artyom looked through the glass, covered with a thousand raindrops, as a faceless gray-shining building drew people to itself, dressed mostly in dark colors. Most were sheltering from the rain that had started yesterday with umbrellas of inconspicuous colors, again most often black. Artyom was looking at these umbrellas; under some of them were hiding several candidates for the role of his deputy. The workload had doubled accordingly after opening two new branches, which necessitated this, although before, Artyom found it both more pleasant and calmer to handle many things
himself, but now he needed to find simply a smart person, capable of thinking as non-standardly and non-templately as possible. The ads had stated that experience wasn't particularly important, so now he was waiting for not the most gifted people either. But he had to endure this too, otherwise he'd drown in these papers."Olga, please, wait for me!" Artyom shouted into the stairwell.
She stopped, and in a few awkward seconds, he caught up with her, standing on the 12th-floor landing. He had apparently startled her a bit, stopping her like that. A cigarette flashed in her slender fingers with minimalist manicure, a regular one at that, not the usual lady's toothpick.
"You didn't say you smoked."
"And you didn't ask, Artyom Dmitrievich," she smiled at him.
"Yes, probably too many interviews in a day. And if you want—call me Artyom, only the police and the cleaning lady call me by my patronymic, especially if you and I are going to work together."
"Are we going to?" she smiled again. He only now noticed her lips, either without lipstick or masterfully accentuated by that very lipstick. 'Smiley,' he noted to himself.
"You and that Barmaley guy before you are the main candidates. Although I probably shouldn't have said that, sorry, I'm not used to these formalities when hiring."
"Nice to hear. Can we smoke here?"
"Be my guest," he snorted and immediately cursed himself for the stupid pun.
"I just got lost in your corridors and ended up on this staircase, it was a bit scary when you were catching up to me."
"Sorry, I got curious about who else walks here besides me. Mostly the office lazybones cram themselves into the elevator."
They were slowly descending, an awkward silence hanging in the air filled with dampness from the open windows, tobacco smoke, and a bit of her perfume, because Artyom decided to seize the moment and let her go slightly ahead on the staircase, narrow enough for two, to look at her from behind now, not like face-to-face in the office. Black trousers hugged her slender legs with round knees and a small, firm behind quite tightly (I wonder, what's under those trousers?), small feet without calluses were shod in black patent leather sandals with medium heels, cheerfully tapping on the gray concrete steps.
In the parking lot, sitting in his car, Artyom pulled out another cigarette, cursing himself for his behavior with Olga, for the dumb joke and the ensuing silence. Rain began tapping on the car roof again, the wipers slid across the glass, turning the surrounding objects from vaguely blurred to clear. "You're acting like you're 18, my friend," he thought, shaking himself. "The most ordinary girl, why are you so worked up? Remember Vika, that's who you should be afraid of and shy around."
At home, a good glass of cognac solved many questions and helped him fall asleep.
About a week passed, Artyom consulted with an acquaintance and decided to hire Pasha after all, it would be calmer; Olga with her smile hadn't left his head, and work was going terribly. But this very Pasha stopped answering calls for unknown reasons. Artyom looked at his planner, scribbled all over today's page... And decided to call Olga, he'd figure himself out somehow.
"Olga, we've made a decision, you're a good fit for us, when can you start?"
"We, Artyom the First? Sorry, couldn't resist. Tomorrow's fine, what time?"
"I come in at seven, everyone else comes by eight, I think somewhere around seven-thirty would be best."
"Agreed, Artyom."
So, now he, the boss who makes many subordinates tremble, is being unnerved by some gray mouse, even a bit cheeky in his opinion, but she had precisely those qualities needed for the offered position.
The sun was already setting behind the slightly dusty panoramic windows; this evening he once again found himself alone with Olga, behind the glass to his left. "I need to talk to her about something other than work at least once," he thought and rose from his chair, strode from his office to the neighboring one. (Specially for .org — ) The carpet softly muffled his steps, so he knocked before entering the equally glass door without any locks, so as not to startle the new mistress of this space. She peeked out from behind the computer monitor and smiled at him. "Damn, those lips again," a tired thought flashed in his tired head.
"Working late again?"
"Just like you, Artyom, seems it's good for business," she said, leaning the chair back to the maximum.
"Give yourself a break, otherwise there won't be any benefit."
"As you say, Artyom the First," Olga chuckled, slender fingers with beige nails pulled a cigarette from
the pack on the glass table.
"You smoke here?"
"Are you forbidding it?"
"No, be my guest," — damn, that 'be my guest' again.
"Then join me."
Lighters clicked and that very silence, hated by Artyom, hung in the air. Bluish smoke flowed in two streams towards the white ceiling with lamps arranged in a checkerboard pattern, never once turned on by Olga; the desk lamp light was enough for her. The city outside the window somewhere below was lighting its lights, white and red streams crawling in traffic jams on the roads.
"Come here, have you noticed what a great view there is?" — she amusingly shuffled her feet and rolled her chair closer to the window.
Artyom grabbed a visitor's chair and the ashtray from the table, sat down next to her.
"Yes, I keep telling Kirill that, but he just wants to get out of here faster."
"He's missing a lot. Although he seems to have a girlfriend who throws hysterics if he's late, right?"
"Well, maybe so. But still, he's missing a lot, few people in the city see this. Though where do I need to rush, I ask? So I'm stuck here, even though I could work with documents at home just as well."
"Exactly. And no one's waiting for me either, shall we drink to that?" — she unexpectedly suggested, jumped up, rummaged in her bag, and pulled out a small metal flask covered in worn suede.
"Wow! It's even funny to see, honestly, why do you have it with you, at work? Are you a cowboy from the Wild West, huh, Ol?"
"Well, I like to drink rarely, but accurately. And don't worry, not at work, no-no."
"Still funny, like in some movie."
"I don't see anything wrong. It's calvados."
"You won't believe it, I only know it from books, what kind of thing is that?"
"Apple vodka, you'll try it now."
"Haven't given my consent yet, but okay."
She took a sip, quite touchingly throwing her head back. A light wrinkle appeared on her forehead but soon disappeared, her breath nearby filled with a subtle scent of apples. Artyom took the flask from her hands and also took a swig; the calvados turned out to be quite strong, though what else could you expect from vodka, even if apple-based. The neck still held the warmth of her lips, and for the next few minutes, this thought didn't leave his head.
"No, really, it's like a scene from a movie, and the screenwriter has rather little imagination," he said, handing the flask back to her.
"Hush and enjoy the moment," Olga smirked.
Finishing the flask, they lit cigarettes again, and outside the window, cottony twilight thickened with a fiery strip of horizon—all that remained of the sun.
"Are you single or are you screwing someone?" Olga started the conversation nonchalantly, taking a juicy drag of her cigarette in the weak light coming from the window.
"Damn, you're surprising me today, where's that serious girl I hired, what have you done with her, madam?"
"She's here, but tired, I'm taking over for her. Don't avoid the question."
"Then answer it yourself first."
"I've been alone since last year, since my intended one left me."
"Meaning?"
"Kicked the bucket."
"Sorry, my condolences, I didn't know."
"Well, don't dwell on it, I'm used to it already."
"I'm single, for about a year and a half, my beloved left me, ran off to St. Petersburg with a fat, cheerful biker, it's even funny."
"Yeah. No wonder I see you staring at me like that."
"What? Me?... Come on, I'm not staring at you!"
"Who are you fooling, me or yourself?"
"No one! You're talking nonsense, staring at her, indeed."
"Should have kept quiet, Artyom the First," she said, moving closer to him on the wheels of her chair. Her lips were again folded into that unsettling smile of hers, she was slightly flushed from the drink and looked straight into his eyes. Artyom apparently had enough of that dose too to understand the unambiguousness of the situation and pulled her to him by the shoulders. He finally felt the warmth of her lips, tasting of alcohol and aromatic tobacco. They were greedy, impatient, her tongue eager to slip into his mouth. His hands slid from her shoulders to her elbows and pulled her even closer, so Olga had no choice but to move onto his lap. Her hands went traveling over his shirt, searching for buttons. Finding them, she didn't stand on ceremony much, maybe even tore off a couple, but achieved her goal—her slightly cool hands lay on his chest, slightly covered with curly hair. Artyom didn't waste time either, and his fingers traced her back, making her arch slightly towards him, then found the edge of her thin turtleneck and pulled it up. Olga pulled away from his mouth and pulled the turtleneck over her head herself, the air around them filled for a second with the scent of those very perfumes. This somehow sharply spurred Artyom to feel it closer, so his lips landed on her exposed neck, making her breathe a little faster.
"Well, well, what vigor you can show," she whispered in his ear, in turn pulling his shirt off, impatiently tugging at it while he unbuttoned the cuffs. After the shirt flew aside, he could press her to himself, now pressing his lips to her ear without an earring; here, under her hair, was the epicenter of the scent driving him crazy. The response was a short sigh and slender fingers sliding down his back. Artyom understood little by now, his palms instinctively landed on her chest in a smooth white bra, but that seemed insufficient, and his fingers hurried to her back...
"In the front..."
"What?..."
"The clasp is in the front..."
"Are you really that wet from your boss?" he whispered, leaning towards her. She smiled languidly through light moans.
"Will you let me taste myself?..." she said. Artyom liked the idea, and those two fingers now went to her mouth. A nimble little tongue quickly cleaned them, she began to suck on them slightly, hinting at more. But he could no longer hold back at the sight of that wonderful ass, whitening before him in the semi-darkness of the office. He slowly entered her hot slit, making her arch slightly towards him and let out a moan that Artyom wanted to hear again and again, no matter what. His palms landed on her velvety buttocks, slightly spreading them apart and squeezing them with whitening fingers. Olga was also wound up and was already slowly rocking to meet him. Then he himself began to slowly pick up the pace, spurred on by her moans and her pose—she leaned one hand on the floor-to-ceiling window glass, and the other was already playing with her clitoris. In the semi-darkness of the office, only their heavy breathing, moans, and light slapping sounds from sharp thrusts could be heard.
"Grab my hair... Yes, like that... Don't be gentle... Ahhh..."
Artyom had no intention of being gentle; he wrapped her ponytail around his fist, pulled her head to him, and sank his lips into hers, not stopping from entering her harder and faster, faster and harder...
"I'll keep calling you Artyom the First, okay?"