Kinky Kicks on Company Time (I)

by Horace P. Hightower

Click for Episodes: No. 1, No. 2, No. 3, No. 4, No. 5

Who's to say I must compensate for the boredom of my occupation outside of the office? Many opportunities for highly enjoyable and rewarding distraction present themselves during working hours -- I'd certainly be a fool to fail to capitalize on them. And what, moreover, is more satisfying than for me to be able to state truthfully, "I've had more sex in the past year on the premises of _____ than so-and-so has doubtless had in most other locations combined"? And there's certainly more than a few so-and-sos that the statement holds true of -- whether it be the exceptionally boring workaholic who lacks a life outside of the firm, the groveling boot-licker who religiously acts as waiter to every supervisor in sight, or the smug artsy would-be author whose utterly inept in all respects except when it comes to boasting about all the writing he never does: these types are unfortunately in every office -- we all know them -- we all despise and laugh at them -- we all suspect there's a good chance they never get any ass at all. But how satisfying it is, despite their innate ridiculousness, to be able to routinely indulge in sexual thrills right under their noses, without them even remotely suspecting.

Where have I not had sex at the firm? and what sexual practices have I failed to indulge in at the firm? and when have I not been able to laugh at conceited disciplinary idiots at the firm, on account of all the fun I was having in the immediate vicinity? That incomparably cute full-figured Catholic girl first comes to mind -- so sexily clothed in a conservative manner -- cashmere turtleneck sweaters, pleated skirts of a respectable length, everything stylish but simple -- a liberal amount of bracelets, always a necklace with a cross, hair tastefully done in a restrained manner -- so about-to-burst-at-the-seams-of-her-voluptuousness -- so much succulent sweetness tightly bundled up!

Well, a girl can seek to keep her lusciousness under wraps, but will her lusciousness always be content with such treatment? will bountiful nature be denied? I read her, very correctly, as latent sexuality thirsting for a spark to set it ablaze -- oh yes, very correctly! Now latent sexuality, mind you, will not endure an overt approach: declare your intentions straightaway, and you've lost before you've even started. As luck would have it (and, blow to a male ego though it be, luck often has as much to do with eventual consummation as anything else), we were often called upon to work together. I was always on my best gentlemanly behavior, diligently focused on the project at hand -- always incomparably polite and respectful, occasionally venturing the sort of mocking sally at something's expense that all reasonably intelligent and balanced people enjoy -- after which I'd appear to be embarrassed at having made the remark, even though she'd laughed. There I'd be, bending near her while pointing out some indiscrepancy in a document -- yes, our bodies would be very close, such that I could feel sultry energy humming below the surface of the delectable contours of her curves. Such things are beyond words: one simply senses -- simply knows -- there is subsurface communication, as if one's nervous system and the girl's nervous system are introducing themselves to one another and commencing a dialogue. And I'd be speaking to her in a calm, professional, reassuring voice -- and I'd understand that my voice was setting off additional manifestations of warmth within her, inspiring not merely trust but the beginnings of the budding of desire. Again, it's simply something one knows to be happening on account of the warm invigorating subsurface charge in the atmosphere. And she'd occasionally fasten her eyes upon me at that close distance, with our heads not two feet apart, and the pleasing tension in the air would perceptibly increase -- and I could feel she also felt it -- and a question would seem to hover somewhere behind her eyes -- and then she'd uncross and recross her legs, rub them together such that the material of her stockings would whisperingly crackle. But the moment wasn't right yet: that question in her eyes would need to be more clearly formulated -- desire would need to inform her gaze with a certain amount of insistence -- she'd need to obviously want me to grasp her hand for the first time, clasp her close. Things with her were still far too much on the subconscious level.

Well, it's allowable to look at such a girl when she's not looking -- allowable to appreciatively run one's eyes up and down her symmetrical legs, appraise the round firmness of her behind, smooth flatness of her stomach, delicacy of her hands -- allowable to tap into the aura of her presence, thrill to the catlike perfection of her poise, admire her posture and gestures; yes, all is allowable just as long as her eyes are averted. And so we were working together in an isolated cluster of desks in the wide hallway outside private offices in a corner of the building at around three AM and I was looking at her in such a manner. And, of course, she was fully aware of it, as women generally are -- there was that wonderful inner smile of approval on her face -- there was that sense of a woman reaching deep inside herself and channeling her energy, bringing additional charm into her movements, warming to the touch of caressing eyes. And then she suddenly turned towards me and I, of course, instantly dropped my gaze and pretended to be oblivious of what was happening -- and also, of course, I did it very badly and betrayed a certain amount of discomfort, as if I knew I'd been caught and wasn't sure what she thought. And it was then that she permitted herself a display of impatience, even annoyance -- then that she suddenly slapped down a page she'd been reading and confronted me with a direct look. And when I glanced up to meet her eyes I read something that was close to anger -- and also the question, "Why?" -- and also hurt, as if she couldn't understand why I didn't just come out with it, admit my attraction, put a stop to the suspense. And then she abruptly looked away, rearranged the pages in front of her in an intentionally noisy manner, and made as if to resume perusing them. And I was debating whether the moment was right for me to cross over to her chair and lean close and count on the chemistry of proximity to propel us into one another's arms when she proceeded to take a deep breath, quite audible, and straighten herself in her chair and very deliberately remove her sweater and then roll up the sleeves of her blouse -- roll them up to her shoulders -- and then she just pulled her entire body tight and absolutely radiated the invigorating tension of gathering desire! The lean beauty of her arms, the arresting amount of disturbance on her flushed face! I've seldom seen anything more moving! The right moment, indeed, was nigh! I was beside her in a second, and she gazed up at me and revealed all in her look -- that upturned eye look that trustfully requests, demands, that one be kind enough to calm a woman's unsettled body. I placed both hands on her shoulders and she instantly stood up -- we were in one another's arms, squeezing for all we were worth, kissing for all we were worth. She was pressing her mouth against mine so hard I could feel it in my jawbone -- she was gasping deeply, holding nothing back.

I must admit I was surprised at the degree to which she gave of herself -- at the unconcealed force of her fervor, her utter lack of restraint. It was predictable that, given the manner in which she'd kept her ardent nature tightly bundled up, there would be a spontaneous outpouring of affection once she allowed the dam to burst -- and it's, moreover, perfectly true that any woman possessed of stunning physical endowments, whether she likes it or not, is going to eventually display an aptitude for pleasure; but I was still surprised. And, mostly, I was surprised at her utter lack of concern over the fact that we happened to be in a hallway, open to the view of whoever might happen by. Late though the hour was, there were still plenty of people about. She was quite willing to sink to the floor right then and there -- I don't think she was able to see beyond the joy we were greedily drinking with every bursting pore of our excited bodies.

I took it upon myself to guide her towards one of the private offices -- with my tongue in her mouth for the duration of the stroll, one of my hands greedily grasping her luscious behind, her hair swirling in my face, arms clasping me tight. Yes, I opened the door to the office, switched on the light -- the small room was swirling amidst vivid impressions of the sensation of the feel of her satiny skin, a rapidly blurring capacity for sequential thought, increasingly forceful surges of dizzy delight. And then she was on her back on the desk with her dress, blouse, panties -- everything -- off; lying there silky white in the bright light, a tangible -- touchable, kissable -- hallucination, the personification of pleasure. I was inside her, thrusting deep, thrilling to the responsive grip of her warm moist tight loving love-canal -- often bending forwards to taste of her lips again, grasp her breasts again, sense the heavings of her body again.

We were in that office until sunrise -- how time whirled by! Seven o'clock, the hour at which security guards check to see that all offices are unlocked, was approaching -- we dressed, combed our hair, wiped the sweat from our faces, did our best to erase the dizzy glaze from our eyes -- made laughing references to dusting ourselves off, shook ourselves vigorously. Finally, we exited the office, just as the security guard's key rattled in the lock of the one next door. Smilingly, we scampered back to our desks and resumed working. What fun it was to hastily complete processing the revisions to the document we'd been working on -- and how easy it was, soaring as we were on giddy wings of satiation.

By nine o'clock the day people were trickling in, surrounding us with their chatter that knew nothing of, could never suspect the existence of, the sort of delightful things that went on at the firm at night. We completed our assignment by nine fifteen, minutes before the partner who was to review it arrived. I recall stepping into his office, document in hand, with my Catholic beauty at my side looking especially radiant in the bright light of the rising sun -- recall the view of the East River outside stretching from the sweet hummings of my nerves into a blue horizon reeling beyond the water and receding into infinity.


Next installment: Kinky Kicks on Company Time (II) -- the delight of transforming the dreary atmosphere of a staid law firm into a playground is further elaborated upon -- the Catholic cutie and I become increasingly brazen -- her dress seems to fly up her thighs in the most unlikely places.

Click for Episodes: No. 1, No. 2, No. 3, No. 4, No. 5

Kinky Kicks on Company Time (I)
© 2001 Sliptongue, Inc.





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