i sit at my desk at work, working.
writing important professional letters, compiling statistics, answering my telephone: sure, i can fax that report to you. mmm-hmmm. my coffee mug is empty, and my energy is flagging. it is nearly three o’clock. i save my document, password-protect my screensaver, and head for the lounge.
i tap my high heels in time to the faint rhythm of some oldies station. doo-wop drifts through the room as i wait for the coffee to brew and smoke my fourth cigarette of the day. it tastes good, but it will taste better with coffee.
back at my desk, i unlock my screensaver and begin double-checking the spreadsheet’s calculations. my toe itches; i take off one shoe and scratch it with the other foot. i kick off my other shoe and jot a note on my calendar to remind myself that i need a pedicure. a slight tickling on the itchy foot startles me a little. it stops.
twenty minutes later, deeply engrossed in my report, it takes me several moments to notice the stroking. it begins near the bone of my ankle, trailing lightly upward until it reaches my inner thigh, which it squeezes. squeezes? hands squeeze. whose hand is this? who the fuck is under my desk? my every muscle tenses, my eyes darting suspiciously about. i mentally take attendance of every colleague within sight – every one of them present and accounted for, working, socializing, faxing, filing, copying.
i am unable to determine the protocol for this situation. i do not want to further embarrass myself. i want to know who is down there, but am afraid of my reaction – what if the answer pleases me? i also have deadlines to meet and reports to finish today. relaxing my posture a bit, i shift in my chair and begin typing random letters in a new document, waiting.
it occurs to me that i am wearing a skirt. what if this person ogles me? what if this person has been staring up my skirt for twenty minutes? what have they seen? which underwear am i wearing? do i have a run in my stockings? i cross my legs abruptly and continue typing, pausing to study the faces of my neighboring colleagues, searching for evidence that my situation is known. there is none.
the hand releases its hold on my thigh, thwarted by the crossing of my legs. for several minutes, there is no contact. as i begin to question my sanity, the warm smoothness of fingertips grazes both of my knees – then gripping them urgently, forcing my legs apart. my breath catches in my throat, the brazenness of my visitor taking me by surprise. i begin typing again.
i struggle to appear normal, my heart racing. the face that belongs to the hands moves forward, its cheeks rubbing against my lower thighs. smooth cheeks. a close shave. light breath on my inner thigh. the room suddenly feels entirely too warm. the face presses further, moving under the cloth of my skirt. two hands now, slipping all the way up, tracing the seam of my stockings. pulling.
i hear the soft, frightening sound of tearing nylon. thirty seconds later, the warm breath on my bikini line.
my phone rings, and i gasp. i answer it quickly, to avoid unwanted attention. it is my boss, and he wants to have lunch with me tomorrow before the meeting. i agree, and ask if he’ll e-mail me the location and time later, because i’m behind on the reports. the hands pull aside the thin fabric of my underwear, fully exposing my sex to whomever is down there. my heart beats faster as i attempt to break off the conversation before my nervousness betrays me. my boss asks me another question, one that requires a thoughtful answer, and as i retrieve the document from my computer that holds the answer, a sudden flick of my clit causes me to recoil. was that a fingernail? i wonder, shocked at the thought of a female colleague perpetrating this twisted game.
i locate the data i am searching for, and relay it to my boss. another touch on my clit, lingering and moist. her tongue? the surrealism of the situation paralyzes me, and i sit, speaking idly into the telephone as the touching increases in pressure and speed. damn, i think. this feels really good.
my boss begins a diatribe on the logistic vulnerabilities of the west coast sales area. let me tell you a thing or two about vulnerability, i think, closing my eyes as the touching – licking? – of my clit continues rhythmically. as the tingling in my clit spreads throughout my body, the hands creep toward my ass. i shift again in my ergonomic chair, spreading my legs wider as my boss continues to pepper me with questions.
restraining my pleasure is difficult; it takes every ounce of strength to suppress the moan that has been building in my belly. as the warmth of my skin increases to fever pitch, three fingers enter me, without warning. within moments, a fourth finds my ass, pushing me over the edge. the physical release is made more intense by the stifling of the vocal. it is the most intense orgasm i can remember.
my boss finally hangs up, and i push my chair back quickly, determined to discover the identity and motive of my assailant-lover. peering into the darkness beneath my desk, i see no one at all.
my legs shudder violently.
. it was almost like an out-of-body experience (i’ve said how i feel about kissing girls before; if you missed it, shame shame and go read the archives again). it was heavenly to snuggle with her and smell her soft hair, and again i say her body was so toned. more, please!