Morning Ritual
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Broad beams of sunshine filtered through the thick frames of the large bedroom window as the short haired brunette rolled over in her bed. The warmth of the rays spread across the room, washing across the face of the forty-eight year old as she reluctantly left the arms of Morpheus and returned to the real world.
"This had got to be a record," Sandra Jessica Kent said to herself as she opened her eyes and, looking at the digital clock on her night table, noted that an entire night had actually passed without her having her sleep interrupted.
In the four and a half months since she had taken over her new position, Sandra had only managed to have twenty-nine nights of uninterrupted sleep. True, a number of those disturbed slumbers had merely been early wake ups, but there had been more than enough of them for her to appreciate those long ago days when she could afford the luxury of sleeping in.
"Well, you wanted to be able to play with the big boys," Sandra reminded herself as she pulled back the covers and sat up. That phrase had been one she'd told herself nearly every day since she was approached by her predecessor two years ago and asked to join his team.
That request, would be destined to be one of his more controversial decisions, one that few of his associates agreed with. But Jim Forrester was nothing if not his own man, and once made, the decision stood.
Of course his associates and backers might've fought harder to change his mind if they could ever have imagined that Sandra would actually wind up in the number one spot. Yet, in those days when all seemed to be going their way, who could've believed that the former All State Running Back, who was actually eighteen months younger than Sandra and in great shape for a man his age, would just drop dead one fall morning when a tiny artery in his brain burst.
After they have carried him to his rest, the associates would've given almost anything to have been able to send Sandra packing and back to the California University that Jim had rescued her from. But the system didn't work like that, and as much as they disliked the idea of her being in charge, there was little they could do about it. Jim's job was too important to leave empty while people debated about a successor. The men who had written the ground rules had decided that a long time ago.
Rising to her full five foot seven height, Sandra stretched her body, wiping away the last vestiges of sleep. As she did, her eyes surveyed her environment.
The quarters that came as a perk of the job were certainly a long way from the run down studio apartment that she had shared with her husband back when they'd first married right out of college. Personally, she'd have been just as happy to have gone on living in her old house, but people around here were big on tradition.
The memory of her husband drew her attention to the empty space on the other side of the full sized bed. George Kent had died four years before and for a time, Sandra had no interest in filling that void in her life. Now, after time had helped heal the jagged hole in her life, the constant demands on her time seemed to always take precedence over any personal life.
"Well you wanted to play with the big boys," she echoed in her head once more. Of course, why was it that so many of those big boys also managed to get a little on the side when they wanted.
Walking across the plush tan carpet, Sandra stepped into a bathroom that was just as spacious and opulent as the bedroom. At times, it all seemed a bit much, but this room at least contained a walk in shower that the former History Professor had come to love. It was her refuge from the world, a chance to step away from the worries and pressures of the job.
Undoing the simple blue pajama top she wore, one of her husbands that she had saved, Sandra stood topless in front of the large wall mounted mirror. The woman looking back at her in the reflection looked pretty good for her age, she thought. She'd put on a few pounds over the last few years, but nothing too drastic. In fact, she could name a half dozen of her friends who would kill to be in as good a shape as she was.
As she finished taking stock, Sandra ran her hand across her small, firm breasts. Not that she'd ever admit it, well at least not to anyone other than George, but the forty-eight year old had always been proud of her rounded mounds. A pride that went all the way back to her junior high school days in Kansas when they had first begun to develop.
Feeling both their softness and firmness, Sandra smiled. She remembered with some irony how some of her more endowed classmates used to make fun of her small breasts. Comments that didn't bother her then, or now. In fact, how many of those big boobed tormentors could say that their breasts were in as good shape as they were twenty-five years before.
Absentmindedly, her slender fingers caressed her small pink nipples, feeling them grow hard at her touch. It had been a long time since they had been touch by any hand but her own.
The misty cloud of steam that began to cover the mirror told her that the shower water, which she had turned on a minute before, had already reached a comfortable temperature. Sandra never wore the bottom of the pajamas, so it only took a moment to slide off her panties and drop them in the hamper before stepping into the shower.
The splash of hot water against her skin from the dual jets felt refreshing, washing away, at least for the moment, the worries she carried in her head. Filling both her hands with liquid soap from the wall-mounted dispenser, Sandra began to soap herself up.
"Oh, that feels good," she thought to herself as her soapy hands pressed against her flesh, massaging her skin.
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