Claire: Ramya's smack changes everything

My anal deflowering was on a Sunday, so I get to start the week with a sore butthole.

I get in early, eager to make my mark in corporate America.

To my surprise, our second-line manager, Ramya Venkatesan, is already in. She’s been something of a legend to me since my first day. Everything I wish I could be seems to come to her effortlessly: where I’m hesitant, she’s confident enough to lead men twice our age. I’m fresh out of college while she's about five minutes older than me and seems to simply know everything about IT.

She’s striking, too. She's even a couple inches taller than me and so composed. To top it off, her face is prettier, her butt is firmer, and her breasts are bigger! As far as I'm concerned, she's the sexiest woman I've ever seen. She has it all. I want to be just like her. Maybe even be near her in a way I don’t fully understand yet.

Most of us wear jeans to the office, and while managers usually dress a bit more formally, today she’s in jeans too. They suit her unfairly well. Strong glutes, toned legs, everything shaped by an obvious workout routine. Her top is professional, but even so, it can't hide how gifted her chest is. The third button down looks like it's going to pop any second. Her dark hair is pulled into a ponytail instead of its usual styled waves, and somehow that makes her look even more effortlessly beautiful. I can’t help being jealous… and something else I don’t have a name for.

She greets me by name scoring major points with me and lingers at my cubicle to ask about my projects. She has this mix of warmth and clear authority, the kind that makes you want to do well not out of fear, but because you want to make her proud. She even helps me troubleshoot a few trouble spots in my code.

Then she surprises me by asking about my CrossFit gym.

“I usually go in the morning,” she says. “But I saw your car there the other day. And I can tell you’ve been working out. It shows.”

My face heats instantly. "Thank you. Yeah, I go in the afternoons.”

She steps a bit closer to point at something on my monitor, and suddenly she’s in my space, close enough that I catch a soft hint of her fragrance—clean, understated, warm. I’m not great at eye contact, so my gaze flicks down, lingers on the outline of her nipples poking through her large breasts, and then immediately back to the screen, cheeks burning. Great, now she thinks I'm lesbian.

“Well,” she says lightly, “I’ll be there tonight if you’re going.”

And then she leaves me buzzing, dizzy from the tiniest bit of attention from her.

That afternoon, true to her word, Ramya shows up to Crossfit. She’s in tight fitting legging shorts and a sports bra, while I look like a camp counselor in my T-shirt and baggy shorts. She warms up in the front row, and I can see half the men behind her trying not to gawk. Today is heavy squats, and she loads her bar like it’s nothing with two plates per side and change. She’s incredibly strong, but still gives off feminine grace.

And the boobs must be fake to be that large on such a lean woman.

She gives me a quick hello between sets, but we don’t talk much afterward.

On Friday, during our quarterly all-hands, the CEO announces Ramya is leaving at the end of the month to take a senior manager role at a local firm, a position with “VP” attached to her name. She's 23! I’m stunned, impressed, and weirdly heartbroken.

I see her again the next morning at the 9:30 class. I go to congratulate her, and she pulls me into a hug. It lasts only a second, but something in my chest lights up when our bodies meet, when her breasts press against mine. I don’t know what to call it except… confusing.

The workout is a brutal deadlift progression followed by a run. I end up sprawled on the floor, a sweaty disaster. When I finally manage to stand against the wall, something snaps sharply against my right butt cheek.

I whip around to complain and find Ramya smirking at me. People are milling around, not paying attention.

“Good workout,” she says with a grin before turning away.

That spark in my chest flares again. Maybe it’s the sting from her playful smack or the way the impacted flesh tugs at my pink parts. It could be that she's beautiful coated in sweat with no makeup without even trying. Maybe it’s the dawning realization that for the first time in my life I might be feeling this way about a woman.

After class, the gym’s small locker room feels like a sauna. I drag myself inside, still catching my breath. I’m just in time to see Ramya pulling her sports bra over her head.

I freeze.

I don’t want to stare. I try not to. But she’s right there, and I’m tired and slow and not prepared for this. Her body is strong and real, more real than I imagined. Her enormous chest, which I once assumed was some impossible standard of size and perfection, is far more human. No implants. She is 100% natural, and they sag a lot. Soft, natural curves marked by faint stretch lines, the kind of lines that come from effort and change and life. Not bought perfection. Just her. That makes her even more beautiful.

“Claire?” she asks.

My stomach drops. Oh no. She definitely noticed me noticing.

I jerk my gaze upward. “Sorry. I just zoned out.”

She laughs warmly and lifts her breasts, squeezing them and engorging the large nipples that are pointing at my facing in a playful, exaggerated gesture. “Do you want a closer look?”

I nearly combust on the spot. “I—what? No! I mean—I wasn’t—”

“I’m just fucking with you,” she says, letting her breasts fall. “I used to be overweight. Lost a lot of weight, and my chest didn’t exactly get the memo, they just got sad. But that’s life. Time for me to get serious, find a husband, all of that.”

Her tone is light, but she's sincere and telling me a lot.

Once my pulse settles enough for rational thought, I manage, “I think they are beautiful.” My voice is too soft but honest. "That's my motivation as well. I'm perpetually single and invisible to men."

And definitely, absolutely 100% not a lesbian.

She smiles. “I’m married to my job. But I’m finally open finding someone now.”

She turns to her locker, then groans. “I forgot my regular bra. I can’t go outside with these heifer jugs hanging down. Guess I have to put the sweaty one back on.”

I laugh, relieved to be on safer ground. “I live close. I usually just marinate in sweat until I get home.”

That earns a real laugh from her that makes her eyes crease. We chat as we get ready, and the conversation leads to discovering we live in the same apartment complex.

I joke about how fast she’s climbing the corporate ladder. “You could buy yourself a mansion now.”

“To do what, live in it alone?” she replies with a shrug. “My lease is up in six months. I might move.”

It's the same argument every single and successful girl in her twenties encounters. Success doesn't keep you warm at night. Maybe that husband is right around the corner waiting to merge households.

When we’re done getting dressed, we walk out toward our cars together, morning sunlight bright and hot on the pavement. My heart thrums with nerves, but I **** myself to ask.

“Ramya?” She glances my way. I swallow. “Since you’re leaving… maybe we could…” Her expectant smile almost knocks the breath out of me. “I’ve always looked up to you. And I guess I don’t know if I’m asking you to be my friend or my mentor, but I’d like to spend more time with you. If you’d want that. Maybe you'll rub off on me."

She doesn’t hesitate. “Why not both?”

My heart leaps.

“I have your number,” she adds, giving me a look I can’t decipher. “I’ll text you.”