Beefy Buns

"Nothing's wrong," she assured me. "I just need a hand."

"Can't Carlos or Sandra or someone else--?"

"No. I need you."

I sighed. "All right."

Standing, I left my office, crossed the kitchen, and made my way, behind Mona, to the meat locker, making a concerted effort not to watch her swaying bottom. What had prompted this impromptu meeting? I wondered. Had Mona decided to charge me with sexual harassment, after all?

Mona opened the heavy metal door, and I followed her into the meat locker. The term, in our case, was a bit of a misnomer, for the walk-in freezer didn't contain hanging sides of beef or other openly displayed frozen animal carcasses. There was plenty of raw hamburger, pre-packaged chicken, and frozen fish, all conveniently sliced and diced in advance, of course, but, like the frozen French fries, the meat was packaged inside pristine white containers--cardboard boxes, plastic tubs, and cartons, and these items were neatly stacked on rows of sturdy metal shelves. Despite the aromatic scents that permeated the kitchen, the meat locker displayed little evidence that this was a place dedicated to the wholesale serving of slaughtered animals.

"I don't really need help," Mona told me.

Her nipples were rigid from the cold, and stood out beneath the thin fabric of her Beefy Buns blouse. After noticing them, I averted my eyes. I didn't need to give her any more evidence of my "sexual harassment" of her. "Then why are we here?"

"I wanted to show you something," she said.

We'd walked to the rear of the meat locker, stepping behind the end of one of the rows of package-laden shelves. She'd stood aside so that I could precede her, and, now, I realized, she quite literally had my back to the wall. "What?" I asked, a little nervously.

She slid the zipper at the side of her mini-skirt down, in one, fluid motion. Grasping the sides of the garment's elastic waistband, she tugged the skirt down her hips, revealing the lavender silk of her panties.