Kinky Kicks on Company Time (II)

by Horace P. Hightower

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

So I'll reiterate what I've stated before: (1) the necessity of earning a living obliges me to waste precisely forty hours a week in a cheerless law firm, (2) these forty wasted hours weigh heavily on my conscience, such that I'm forced to compensate for them, and (3) I compensate for them by seeking novel adventures, cramming as many of them into my time away from the firm as I can. But it's really nothing to boast of: if I fail to wipe away the wasted time by means of memorable experiences, then I don't sleep at night and become exceedingly depressed. I've, quite simply, no choice in the matter: I'm only a man who's learned to swim in order to keep from drowning.

But, as mentioned in my previous column, why must I limit myself to enjoying life outside of the firm? Isn't it to my advantage to seek to reduce forty wasted hours to, say, thirty wasted hours? Isn't it to my advantage to see whether I can reduce the amount of wasted hours even further, perhaps do away with them altogether? There's nothing but boredom at the firm? Well, that all depends on how skilled one is at finding excitement in the most unlikely of places! And what better way to find excitement in a dismal law firm than by coming to an understanding with a girl who balks at very little, is skilled at dissimulation, and extraordinarily charming? I know of no better way to transform forty wasted hours into forty fun-filled hours.

The Catholic girl of my previous column is a case in point. Granted, we were hardly able to be in each other's arms for the full forty hours; and, as she was a temp, she wasn't always at work when I was. But consider the following situation: she calls me at home previous to my shift, and informs me that she'll be there: suddenly the door on frolic swings wide open, and reporting to work becomes something to look forward to. We work in different departments, are often assigned to work on different floors? No problem: we each have a reliable go-between, who apprises each of us of where the other is. Phones are everywhere at the firm: we're shortly calling each other's extension and stating our circumstances -- such as how many people are about, when we can slip away for a meeting. More often than not, because it's third shift and my work can be done at any computer, we're able to sit at adjacent desks. If not, we chat on the phone -- we plot and plan how to seize fun on the run. We will, bet on it, contrive to be together -- be it five minutes here, ten there -- in even the worst of circumstances: this fact alone lifts the formerly intolerable firm into the realm of the blissful.

Imagine it: I'm at work, surrounded by a number of gossiping, backbiting, petty, informant-minded prudes -- the majority don't fall into this category, mind you, but enough do. And if these worthies will turn one in because they've nothing better to do (doubtless because they need to fill the empty moments of their boring lives with shoddy transports of triumph), then others will bore one to death with endless drone-on monologues concerning their very special interpretation of some article in the paper, lengthy expostulations of commonplace political convictions, or full retellings of what was shown on television over the weekend. But do I care anymore? Do I even notice? How can I possibly be bothered by anything when I know there's a cute, charming, and extremely uninhibited girl awaiting me elsewhere on the premises? when I know that, at some point during the night, I'll see her beautiful face and hear her soothing voice? when I know I'll be embracing her curvaceous body, kissing her ardent lips, gazing into her smiling eyes? It's not only the moments I'm actually with her that are enjoyable: I'm immersed in an all pervasive atmosphere of enthralling anticipation.

Yes, a steady buildup of anticipation -- impatient desire -- followed by the consummation of it! The inner dips and rolls, awashings of the soul! The Catholic lovely and I became connoisseurs of the difference between hunger and the surrender to it; we invented a diversion, which we labeled "The Sharp Contrast Game." The idea was to intentionally immerse ourselves in some mind-numbing idiotic preoccupation and then steal off for a reward in each other's arms: we never tired of savoring the changeover from tedium to titillation. Perhaps she'd be photocopying stacks of documents or entering sheet after sheet of statistics into a database; at the same time I might be reading the most boring repetitious legal drivel of a document for spelling and grammatical errors; and then one of us phones the other and proposes a meeting on an unfrequented floor. I stroll to the stairwell, ascend or descend to the agreed upon level, and emerge. There she is, strolling towards me: her chestnut hair bouncing about her smiling face and brimming eyes -- her curvaceous body blithely bounding across the carpet, ample chest as if seeking to burst the buttons of her white blouse -- the light seeming to collect about her -- lips half parted, with her tongue caressing their crimson! I see nothing but her ripe willing mouth, sense nothing but the energy humming inside her -- all depth perception disappears as her face looms close -- I reach to clasp her shoulders -- our lips join, jawbones grind -- there's nothing else in all the world but our shared euphoria, tingles rushing to the surface of my skin! My hands, what are they doing now? they're grasping both of her round soft buttocks firmly, lifting her from the floor -- her thighs are wrapping about me, hair is swishing in my eyes, tongue is continuing to thrust deep inside my mouth. I lift her higher, she clings tighter: I'm wobblingly carrying her towards a cluster of desks, easing her to the floor behind one of them: ceiling reels above, the walls sway. She's on the floor underneath me, I'm shoving my face in her breasts, she's breathing deeply -- I'm kneading her stomach, she's nipping my neck -- I'm sliding her dress to above her waist and noting she isn't wearing panties, she's encouragingly squirming -- I'm fingering the warm moistness of her plump pink petals, she's arching her back and thrusting her pelvis upwards -- I'm slipping inside her, her tight passageway's undulating. All trace of awareness that tedium is an all too common ingredient of life dissolves. I'm suspended in a sensation as of rising into the air on waves of effervescent sparkles and I just want to kiss her harder, gaze into her excited eyes for hours, feel her beautiful mobile lissome body quivering close.

It's a curious thing: at such moments it would seem as if the beginning and end of all possible perception was the world of her writhing body -- the world of juicy warmth inside her; but I'd still, somewhere in my head, be listening for opening doors and footsteps; still be ready to spring from her in the event of someone approaching. And, more than once, we'd been engaged in such intimacy and had heard chatter nearby that was getting closer: as if with one will, we'd torn ourselves from each other, quickly yanked up pants, pulled down skirts, crawled a short distance in opposite directions, pretended to be looking for a lost object, or to be laughing at something in a magazine quickly opened onto the floor, or talking about work matters -- a "Yeah that ____ closing was pretty hectic, wasn't it?" or compatible comment quickly spilling from one of our mouths -- businesslike attitudes on our faces instantaneously, no eye contact, flat tones in our voices. We'd laugh afterwards about these quick changeovers, our as if automatic heading-off-of-suspicion reflexes; as soon as the danger passed, we'd be in a clench again, kissing frantically again, as if there'd been no interruption: there's no resourcefulness which quite compares with that of desire seeing to it that it may continue to safely pursue the course it wishes to.

Ha! Love on the fly in a stuffy law firm! It seems I could write for months, sixty words a minute, and not exhaust this wonderful subject! Say I'm stuck in a conference room for the night, proofreading documents in the company of others on a project with a tight deadline. I excuse myself for a bathroom break and hightail it upstairs to where my Catholic frolic-mate is working on the same project at the other end, keying in revisions to the documents along with three other people. I pause at the corner, smile at her to indicate she should also plead a reason to momentarily leave, and then reverse direction to the coffee stand. The moment she steps into the coffee area ( a small room with doors at opposite sides leading to two different halls) I kneel to my knees, thrust my head up inside her dress, briefly moisten her always thirsty love-flower with my tongue, seize handfuls of ass. Her hands are grasping the top of my head and she's breathing deeply. The sound of her breath makes me yearn for her mouth and I'm soon standing, kissing her hard, while she unzips my pants. And then she's on her knees, taking the full length of my desire into her mouth, fluttering her tongue as I run my fingers through her crackling hair. Less than five minutes later we're both at the coffee machine, trading kisses and caresses while filling our cups. And then a last good-bye by way of shoving my face in her breasts: soon I'm descending the steps to return to the conference room and resume working towards meeting the looming deadline. When I'm seated at the table, surrounded by less funloving coworkers and proofing documents again, I can still taste my Catholic cutie's randy flower, feel the softness of her body, smell the scent of her perfume, hear the rhythm of her breathing, sweet love-patter, and crackle of her hair: such stolen minutes go a long way towards counteracting the mind-numbing effects of a boring assignment.

I have been hurrying to the elevator to take a package to a waiting car outside -- package that needed to be delivered immediately -- and have paused for just long enough to firmly grab cutie's ass and shove my tongue between her teeth: something that probably took no more than ten seconds in duration, but that made time seem to stand still, so strong were the surges of yearning. And then I'd be glancing back at her bright eyes while the elevator door shut, separating us. I'd be floating on air while strolling to the car to hand over the package; my head would be aswim with joy as I rode the elevator back upstairs, even though I knew the chances of seeing her again on that particular night were very slim.

Life is very short and is not to be wasted, especially not on idiotic assignments performed among backbiting drones at a stodgy law firm; but, alas, I must make a living and cannot avoid the place. But, then again, with a randy, eager, loving, understanding woman on the premises: suddenly worthless tedium is transformed into embraces all the more sweet for being forbidden; suddenly the blood flows freely, imagination thrills to the idea of the next escapade, emotional health is surging at its height. In short, sex in the workplace is not an idle luxury for me -- not merely a recreational thrill: it's an absolute necessity. Need and ye shall find! A beauty of lissome body and cultivated mind: shame on he who fails to realize that such a woman detests boredom, stagnation, and wasted time as much as any man. There's always a bored beauty somewhere: make her happy, and you'll get it back tenfold.


Next installment: Kinky Kicks on Company Time (III) -- a cataloguing of what can be gotten away with in office cubicles while others are strolling nearby or seated on the other side of the dividers.

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

Kinky Kicks on Company Time (II)
© 2002 Sliptongue, Inc.





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