Kim’s New Life Ch. 01

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I posted this story over 10 years ago elsewhere. Since then I have rewritten it several times, making additions, correcting errors, etc. I wrote it to be realistic and hope that each chapter makes the reader want to continue.


My name is Kimberly Brooke. I love my given name for its beauty and melodic charm. However, I usually answer to, and prefer, the more familiar nickname, “Kim,” because everyone seems to defer to it. I must admit that I do dislike Kimberly when used together with my middle name, Ann. Mother always appended Ann when I was being admonished. I imagine most Mothers do that.

I am 23 years old with a bachelor’s degree in computer science and a Master’s in Information Technology. I was raised in a small town where absolutely everyone knows everyone else and their business. Almost everyone reading this is probably familiar with a similar town or village. Not wanting to attend a school that had a larger population than the town in which I lived, I enrolled at a small university in the Midwest. Well, size wasn’t the only reason. It was away from home, highly rated in my chosen field, and the price was right.

My parents were not poor, but neither were they rich, so I did not expect them to pay for my college. I applied for every available scholarship and worked a minimum of 20 hours a week to cover expenses not included in the scholarships I eventually received. My parents still assisted as much as they could with incidental costs, but I am proud to say that I finished my education without any debt.

I do not consider myself to be a “geek,” but, without question, I am a bookworm and I spent most of my college time studying; when I wasn’t working that is. As a result, my social life was quite limited, but I didn’t care. School came first. I don’t like to brag, but I graduated Summa Cum Laude in 3 years and had my Master’s Degree one year later.

I don’t think I would ever enter a beauty contest but am quite passable in the “looks” department. My 5’6″ height and 128 pounds are about average. Well, maybe I could afford to lose a couple pounds. I have a 35C bust, a 25-inch waist, 36-inch hips and long legs. I guess you might say I am about average in all departments except brain power. I gave up my virginity during my senior year in high school, and only slept with one guy in college. Both guys climaxed quickly and left me “high and dry,” so neither experience was sexually satisfying. Even sex with my recently ex-beau was not the “mind blowing” experience my female friends talk about. I just remain quiet and nod my head when the subject comes up in discussions between them. I guess part of the problem is mine because I have always been rather naïve where sex is concerned.

I work for a company that produces integrated computer software for manufacturing companies. While intimately involved in the sales process I usually become an on-site consultant for the installation process, when we land a contract. Specifically, I perform the actual installation, train the customer’s personnel and assist in transferring massive amounts of data, insuring a seamless transition from the old system to the new. Responsibility for correcting problems that always occur during this process is solely mine. Some companies want to pay less for the software package and attempt to perform the installation on their own. The most successful installations, however, belong to those companies that are willing to pay for our consulting services, which are included in a higher priced package. They pay for the “job,” not by the hour.

While I draw a six-figure salary, I earn every penny. Most installations take four to six months, depending on the size of the company and whether they have multiple sites or not. One installation required over 10 months from start to completion. The estimated time required for an installation is, of course, included in the contract cost. It is my responsibility to insure the installation cost stays within the estimate.

Because of the complexity of an installation, most of my work must be performed on-site. During a normal week I arrive at the customer’s city late Sunday evening and leave late Thursday night or early Friday morning, depending on the schedule I set with the customer. While on site, I average ten to twelve-hour days. I keep in touch with my office via my laptop and the Internet, in addition to the telephone. Nevertheless, I still need to spend a few hours in the home office on Friday and/or Saturday, although I usually stay at the customer’s site over the weekend as the installation nears completion and time becomes critical. Murphy’s Law always applies.

Since I love the money, and am single, my work schedule does not bother me, although it severely limits my social life just like studying and work did in college. Few guys are willing to put up with an absentee lover. I thought my latest was an exception, but he is the primary reason I am not flying home this weekend. Bayan Escort Gaziantep You see, I recently started a new installation. Initially I spend a full two weeks, including the weekend, with the customer, establishing schedules and preparing for the installation. This allows me to begin training sessions as quickly as possible. On Thursday morning of the first week, my new customer experienced a failure on the server I was to use for the training software. When it was determined the server couldn’t be repaired before Monday morning, I was ecstatic. That day was my boyfriend’s birthday. We had been a couple for nearly six months. Shortly before this new contract was to start, his apartment lease expired. I suggested he could move in with me since we usually were together on weekends and I wouldn’t be using it during the week.

I really wanted to celebrate with him, but the customer had to come first. The server problem gave me an opportunity to spend his birthday and the weekend with him. If nothing else, I would try to give him a memorable birthday present in bed. I had been reading some books and thought I could add a little spice to our sex lives. I always fly on open tickets because of unexpected schedule changes and was able to book a late afternoon flight that would put me home around seven.

Jeff had told me that he would be going out with a couple friends for a drink after work to celebrate his birthday. Knowing he wouldn’t be home when I arrived, I decided to surprise him and parked my car where he wouldn’t see it when he arrived. He said he expected to be home around nine. I planned that when he walked in the door and turned on the light, he would find me stretched out on the sofa wearing nothing but a red and black lace teddy, black thong panties, black lace-top nylons, and black three-inch heels.

Anyone can imagine my thoughts when the door opened and I saw some blond floozy hanging on his arm. Both were well on their way to being drunk. He tried to explain, saying she was just a friend and they weren’t going to do anything. Well it was obvious they had already been doing something. Her hair and lipstick were extremely disheveled. The only thing keeping her bare tits being exposed was a single button on her blouse. I quickly realized that she probably would have been with him when I called, if I had stayed at my customer’s city.

Naturally, I lost my cool and started screaming at him: “How could you? I thought you loved me; we’re through; etc., etc., etc.” The more I yelled, the madder I got. I didn’t care if the people in the next county heard me screaming at him. My invitation for them to get their asses out of my apartment was thoroughly laced with every obscenity I had in my vocabulary and some I didn’t realize that I knew.

The fucking bitch just stood there hanging onto his arm and giggling while she watched him plead with me. When he said that he didn’t have anywhere to stay, she ran her hand over his crotch and slurred, “Don’t worry, baby, if she doesn’t want this anymore, I know how to put it to good use. You can stay at my place tonight.” That statement, confirming my suspicions, only exacerbated my fury. I created such a scene throwing his clothes and belongings into the hallway that some neighbors came out to see what was happening. I was so pissed, I didn’t even care that they saw me half naked. I am probably lucky someone didn’t call 911. I slammed the door shut in their faces after advising him, in the same manner, that he would find the rest of his shit in the hallway in the morning. I then immediately ran to my bed and cried myself to sleep.

I awakened in the morning still wearing the sexy outfit I had worn for him. Out of anger I threw it in the bathroom trashcan. The locksmith I called to rekey my door charged me an exorbitant fee, but it was worth it. Jeff tried to call several times and even pounded on the door begging to let him explain. I totally ignored him.

I was a wreck the rest of the weekend and never left the apartment. Luckily, I am level headed enough that I was able to concentrate on my work rather than wallow in pity over this past week. I did, however, shed a few tears in the hotel room each evening when I normally I would have been calling him to exchange sweet nothings.

This brings me to the present. Since we missed some scheduled steps the previous Thursday, I scheduled this Friday as a makeup day. I prefer not to get behind, especially during the beginning of an installation. Lost time seems to accumulate too quickly when that happens. When I do work with a customer on Friday, though, I don’t work late. Most times it messes up the weekend for others and they often harbor some resentment. Instead of going home Friday evening, however, I decided to remain in town. On one hand, I didn’t want to face Jeff if he continued trying to make amends (I had dismissed numerous phone calls); nor did I want to face the disappointment if he didn’t. I also knew the apartment would remind me of him. I guess I was just afraid of the consequences whatever they might be. I had planned on the possibility of staying when I left on Sunday, so I packed for two weeks and included casual clothes to wear over the weekend.

I normally do not drink a lot, but during a long, steamy shower, I decided I wanted to drown my sorrows this one time. I would be alone all weekend and would have time to recover before work on Monday.

The clothes I selected for my “night out” was a pleated skirt that ended at mid-thigh and a peasant blouse that slightly bared my abdomen, worn over a white bra and bikini panties. White ankle socks and penny loafers completed the outfit. I guess one might say that I had that “50s Look,” which is one of my preferred ways to dress. Since I didn’t want to mess with my hair, I pulled it back into a pony tail. I didn’t mention that I considered my hair to be one of my better attributes. It was auburn, straight, and fell to the center of my shoulder blades. I used only the most expensive shampoos and conditioners on it.

While my outfit was casual in nature, I normally would have gone even more casual by wearing jeans but decided against them. I guess a skirt made me feel “more like a woman,” if that makes any sense. As I already said, I consider myself to be an average female with a good figure, but not a sexpot. I must admit that I do have to occasionally fend off men who approach me in the hotel bars I frequent when on the road. That was another thing that pissed me off about Jeff’s indiscretion. I had lots of opportunities to date others since meeting him, but always went to bed solo when on a job. I was barely out of town, or so he thought, when the bastard was bedding down some floozy.

It was still early, just before five, when I left my room. As I indicated, I didn’t want to sit in my hotel room pining as I had all week. Even though it was still a little early for me to eat, I knew that if I went to the hotel bar I wouldn’t eat at all, and would end up wasted, awakening in the morning with a terrible hangover. Tonight, I simply wanted to go somewhere where I could eat, drink, listen to some good music and not have to fend off attempted pickups since I did intend to return to my room somewhat drunk, but functional. I explained this to the concierge (well, not the drunk part), stressing not wanting to ward off male advances. She recommended Lisa’s Hideaway as the perfect place for me, saying she went there herself when she wanted to get away from the male species (she was a “looker”); and it was only a short taxi ride away.

A combination restaurant and bar, the décor at Lisa’s was primarily red and black. The bar was along the left side of the room as you enter. Booths occupied the right side. In between were tables covered with white tablecloths. Red and black napkins along with lighted candles adorned each table and booth. Low level lighting allowed the room to be accented by the flickering flames of the candles. The combination gave it a very intimate feeling. A stage and small dance floor were at the far end. I could see a few music instruments on the stage, so I assumed there was a band on break. I can’t explain why, but in addition to being intimate, the atmosphere felt sensual to me. Sensuality wasn’t what I was seeking at the moment, but I decided to stay because, all in all, it felt comfortable, and the hotel concierge had assured me I wouldn’t be accosted by any male patrons.

Upon entering, I was greeted by a beautiful woman, dressed in a white turtleneck sweater, short skirt and high heels. “Good afternoon. My name is Kayla. Do you have a reservation?” I looked around, saw a very few other people and asked if reservations were required. “No, but on Friday’s we usually fill up quite fast after six. Would you like a table or a booth?” she asked.

I considered the options for a moment and said, “You know, I think I’d just like to sit at the bar for now. Could you possibly hold a table for me?” Kayla laughed, explaining that they didn’t even take reservations. She just liked to ask that question to guests who appeared to be new. She did, however, promise to get me if it appeared that all the tables were about to be filed. I thanked her and said that I couldn’t ask for anything more.

The bartender was extremely personable. Her outfit was pure sex. A short, flowery wrap-around skirt barely covered her hips. Hard nipples appeared as though they were trying to break through the thin, silky triangles of material that made a string bikini top. I am sure all the male patrons, and probably some of the females, must drool over her. Since I was the only person at the bar and had sat near the center, she spent most of her spare time chatting with me and was skilled enough to keep the conversation off a too-personal level. We exchanged first names, she introduced herself as “Allyson,” and mostly discussed the happenings of the day. When she was talking with me, and sometimes when she wasn’t, my mind was on Jeff and I was oblivious to anything going on around me. While I consider myself to be a great conversationalist, my part of the discussion was primarily short replies to her statements and queries.

I virtually inhaled my first margarita and was on the second when Allyson disappeared from behind the bar. When she returned, she said, “Your next will be compliments of Kelly.”

“And who might this Kelly guy be?” I asked a little curtly.

“She isn’t a guy,” Allyson replied as she pointed out a table at the edge of the dance floor where a woman was sitting alone at a table for four. I glanced over and saw a Meg Ryan look-alike. Her dishwater blond hair was cut in a pixy style and I could see she was wearing a long sleeve, white blouse. Because the table blocked most of my view, I couldn’t determine what else she was wearing. I only know that I love white blouses and regularly wear starched, long-sleeve ones to work. “She’s a very personal friend of mine, Kim (I told her my name was Kimberly), and a great person. She said to ask if you would like to join her.”

I raised my glass towards Kelly as a ‘thank you’ gesture then turned back to Allyson and said, “I don’t think I would be very good company right now.”

“Kim, I’ve been tending bar for several years now and can size up a person rather quickly. Just the tone of your voice tells me that you are down in the dumps. Your comment just proved my assessment. In my “professional” opinion, you need someone to talk with, and I am going to be quite busy soon. Trust me, Kelly is extremely intelligent and a lot of fun. I think you’ll enjoy her company.”

The alcohol had started to loosen me up a little, so I said to myself, “Oh, hell, why not? Being with another woman might actually help keep the guys from bothering me.” While I finished my drink, Allyson mixed another then said, “Come on, I’ll break the ice and introduce you.”

Although she looked less like Meg Ryan than I first thought, I said to myself, “This woman is a beauty.” Kelly stood when we approached the table and I gazed into a pair of piercing cobalt blue eyes. I guessed she was about thirty years old (which I discovered later to be right-on). I don’t know why, but I mentally calculated the seven-year difference in our ages. To a twenty-three-year-old, she was already an “older woman.”

I suddenly liked the idea of spending some time with someone who wasn’t “my own age,” or maybe I should say “a little more mature.” The clothes she wore were very professional. In addition to the tapered white, gabardine blouse, she was wearing gray slacks, which, while not extremely tight, somehow accentuated her flat abdomen. I caught myself wondering how the back of the slacks fit across her tush. I guess I did this because my boyfriend, I mean ex-boyfriend, would occasionally remark how women’s pants fit in the back. She also wore black boots with a two-inch heel. I couldn’t determine the style because her pant legs covered the outside. I judged her height to be just over six feet (ok, taller than Meg Ryan), which made her about five-ten without the heels. Her short, curly blond hair really did remind me of the Meg Ryan style I remember in more than one movie. Checking her out a little more carefully, I could see that her shirt was tapered, form fitting and had extra-sharp creases ironed into it. I also found the French cuffs (with gold chain cuff links) interesting. Thinking, “This woman has class,” I suddenly felt I was glad I had decided to wear something other than a t-shirt and my old faded jeans.

After Allyson completed the formal introductions, Kelly thrust her hand towards me and said, “Thanks for agreeing to join me, Kim. I was going to have dinner with a colleague this evening, but she called a few minutes ago and cancelled. I hate to dine alone. Considering the time of day, I assume you haven’t eaten yet. Am I correct?” Had I known that she really hadn’t asked Allyson to have me join her, I would have been extremely surprised by her friendly greeting (more about this later).

Her hand was warm and soft, and the handshake was quite firm. I like that in a person, and especially in a woman. Too many do not like to grip a hand firmly. I, and many men I know, use that as an initial judge of character; more so for men than for women, however. “No, I haven’t,” I replied in answer to her question, then added, “But, I’d better warn you; as I told Allyson, I don’t think I will be good company tonight.”

“Allyson mentioned that you seemed a little depressed. Care to talk about it? I’m a good listener.”

“Truthfully, I’d rather not,” I replied. My tone was probably a little curt, but I was thinking that it wasn’t any of her damn business. OK, so I was pissed at Jeff and took it out on her. My bad.

Surprisingly she didn’t react the way I probably would have. “Not a problem. We have all evening; if you want to talk later, that is. Just remember, talking things out is usually good therapy, even if your listener is a stranger.”

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