Kicks on Company Time (III),
or Cubicles and the Cutsie Club
by Horace P. Hightower
for Episodes: No.
1, No. 2, No.
3, No. 4, No. 5
the office cubicle! The inventors and manufacturers of the cubicle
have touted it as a means of making the typical office a more
comfortable place -- a more humane place -- and I wholeheartedly
agree with them. Instead of, on the one hand, being shut away
from coworkers in a private office one is allowed to be among
them; and instead of, on the other hand, being exposed to the
gaze of entire floors full of people at naked desks, one's permitted
some privacy on account of the dividing walls: for once the modern
"innovators" have done it right and a comfortable balance has
been achieved, permitting workers to feel neither overly isolated
nor deprived of privacy. My love of the cubicle stems from the
fact that its semi-privacy affords me opportunities galore of
sensual titillation during working hours. A private office has
its advantages, true enough: behind its locked door one can definitely
indulge in a greater amount of intimacy than one would dare try
in a cubicle. But a private office isn't without its pratfalls:
others can easily see who enters and exits through its single
exposed door, not to mention the suspicions a locked door always
gives rise to. On the other hand, anything transpiring behind
a locked door can't be proven and there's no need to be constantly
fearful of an intrusion; but all these matters aside, one makes
due with what one has. I have a cubicle, and so I make do with
Now my cubicle, thanks to my foresight when choosing it, is located
in the right corner of the back of the large maze of cubicles
which occupies my floor; in other words, no one can surprise me
from behind or the right: it's to the front and left that myself
and my partners must keep our eyes peeled and ears alert while
amusing ourselves; actually, mostly only to the front, it being
the only means of entering my cubicle. It's true that a head could
pop over the divider to the left and I never forget the fact,
but such is far less likely and only a small percentage of my
coworkers are tall enough to do it. The fact that I needn't worry
about anyone approaching from behind or the right is largely responsible
for the sort of liberties I'm accustomed to taking. And while
I might occasionally yearn for a closed door, an opportunity to
fully disrobe and press my naked body tight against the silky
skin of my current consort, I know that I've managed to obtain
the most strategically advantageous situation given the circumstances.
Besides, as I've said, I work the third shift: each night, after
the far more populous second shift has cleared out, there are
always ample opportunities in other locations of the firm for
all the private encounters I could wish for.
But enough reflection on the nature of the cubicle and description
of my situation: it's the fun I manage to have that matters.
So there I am seated at my computer, reading and jotting comments
on a lengthy legal document: by all rights I should be bored out
of my mind, but I'm not. Why? Because frolicsome Linda (not her
actual name) is dead set on periodically prancing over to flash
me! She seems to get a particular thrill out of doing it during
the hours when the most people are around, and who am I to deprive
a pretty brunette of a thrill? I must say it's very pleasant to
reap the benefits of her thrill seeking nature!
What an engaging sight! She scampers into my area, yanks up her
pleated plaid skirt, and -- lo! -- isn't wearing anything underneath!
And shaved, of course! My gaze delightedly dances up her slender
legs to the swollen lips between them and lingers -- I'm reaching
for her to come closer, but she remains where she is, a yard away
-- coquettishly gyrates her hips, does an about face, treats me
to the sight of her ass. An unsurpassable ass: highest marks for
shapeliness, firmness, and flawlessness of skin! And still undulating,
the minx! I stand to approach and seize her -- she flings her
dress down and dashes off while giggling: such pearls are the
peals of her laughter!
I sit again and resume my work with the picture of Linda's randy
rear whirling in my head. Well! She's doing her Miss Mischief
thing again, indulging her little girl-brat alter ego! Dashing
over to roust me with visuals and then disappearing before I can
get my hands on anything! It's fun to be teased like this when
conceited artsy idiots are being pompous a couple of cubes away!
I always refer to them as the Cutsie Club, because all they ever
do is speak in sickly affected tones -- pseudo intellectual know-it-all
tones -- and because the substance of their conversation is a
lot of pretentious, vapid, tedious nonsense. Nothing they say
belongs to them: they glom their phrases from articles in the
so-called trendy periodicals -- "trendy" in this case meaning
whatever pop-culture-trash-masquerading-as-culture can be rammed
down the throats of those stupid enough to fork a lot of money
over to live the "lifestyle." The members of the Cutsie Club jabber
a great deal as loudly as possible (to make certain others hear)
about the artwork they never do; they analyze television shows
and discover hidden themes and messages in them; they go out of
their way to declare that they're bored with everything, convinced
that this means they've lived full lives and the world has nothing
more to offer. They imagine they are daring and original but they
are actually thoroughly conventional creatures of no will who
are easily pushed around by rules. They haven't an inkling of
what goes on in the firm, sexwise; their limited imaginations
and sluggish blood streams don't permit of even so much as suspecting
such things. But they'd sure know what to do about it if they
ever found out. Which brings me to another wonderful preoccupation
of the Cutsie Club, and why I hate them so much.
It's curious how so-called artist types seem to be succeptible
to becoming informants and enforcers. The moment they reach a
point in their lives when they realize they have neither made
a splash in the art world nor are likely to, they find themselves
in desperate need of a new distraction. For some reason, this
new distraction often takes the form of suddenly wanting to enforce
every rule in existence. In the case of the Cutsie Club, the fact
that they only blather and never actually create anything has
left a lot of accumulated frustration gnawing at their peace of
mind -- frustration that finds its outlet in faithfully reporting
all violations of company policy. A recent coup of which I'm certain
they're immensely proud is that they managed to get a security
guard fired because they found him napping on a couch upstairs.
Last month, they drew up and passed a petition around. The object
of the petition was to forbid temps from entering our cubicle
area; the temps were to remain in a separate room and communicate
with us only by means of telephone. The reason for this ridiculous
proposal? It seems a girl had spilled some juice on one of their
phones by accident and, after seeing to it she was forever banned
from making a living here, they hit upon the brilliant idea of
restricting the movements of all temps. I know of no one outside
of their circle who signed the thing and they appeared to be astonished
The members of the Cutsie Club are as clueless and pathetic as
they are envious and resentful; but they're nevertheless useful.
Because what fun it is to amuse myself right under their noses
each and every night! What fun it is to use them as a point of
contrast; to set up oppositional tension; to thumb my nose at
their failure to enjoy life by savoring my life to the fullest!
Truth to tell, if they didn't exist I might have to invent them!
But back to fearless Linda and her antics. What a delight it is
when she returns with mirthful face, edges in between the edge
of my desk and my chair, and bends forward to dispense kisses!
Linda always delivers on her flashing; after teasing, she treats.
I grasp both cheeks of her wiggling ass as she flutters her tongue
inside my mouth. Goddamn! How the soft firmness of her buttocks
dances in my hands! What hunger erupts inside me! I yank her skirt
to her chest before I half realize what I'm doing; I'm rubbing
my cheeks against her supple stomach; soon kissing and nipping
while moving downward, pausing just above her honeypot: I'm savoring
anticipation before I take the plunge. All the while Linda's pressing
herself against me, curling over my back, smooshing her ample
breasts against the nape of my neck; her perfume's rippling through
Yes, at the beginning of my shift I was reviewing an exceedingly
dry legal document in a cluttered cubicle while being unable to
completely blot out the stupid blathering of the Cutsie Club --
in bad light, surrounded by drab olive cubicle padding and a matching
carpet splotched with coffee stains. But now Linda's fluid body
is quivering against mine -- injecting me with rising waves of
desire -- as my face hovers very close to her slippery, warm,
open, willing pussy! And Sweetie's gently nibbling my ear and
breathing into it heavily -- and doing some sort of throat-flutter,
sigh, purr sort of thing -- and embracing me as if I'm a life
preserver in stormy water! Shit, I'd pay to come to work!
And now the back of my chair's tipping towards the floor with
our combined weight and we might spill onto the carpet! I transfer
her to the desk; she's sitting there with her legs spread, pink
flower on full display -- I'm truly in another world now -- God,
how the blood seems to swish through my body like a whip! I dive
-- slippery heat's all over my lips and chin and cheeks! I plunge
with tongue, slip it as far inside her vagina as it'll reach --
her soft thighs close against both sides of my face -- she commences
to suck at my neck! Are we being overrash? Perhaps…
On the other hand, we're experienced at this game: our eyes are
on the alert to catch the shadow of anyone who might be approaching
(what a nice touch, this: the considerate firm has placed the
ceiling lights such that a person's shadow is visible before they
are!). And our ears are cocked for footfalls. What's the procedure
if an intruder approaches? I simply sit upright as Linda flings
her dress into a more modest location; then -- presto -- we're
two friends chatting, me in my chair and her on my desk.
Yes, I loathe the Cutsie Club and all their posturing babytalk
that they think is the epitome of cleverness and that masks their
devotion to the interests of all that's against having a good
time at work. In particular, I hate the rat-faced female who fancies
herself a painter and appears to be their leader. She cringes
at every noise around her, unless it's made by her grating voice.
There are few faces I've encountered upon which frustration is
so plainly stamped: ghastly lines bisect her chin, cheeks, and
forehead; her eyes have a resentful, splintering off in all directions,
look in them at all times. She's in her early thirties but could
easily pass for fifty. She likes to make "sssssss" noises each
time she hears a vulgar word uttered and it's no idle threat.
That "sssssss" can quickly become an email addressed to personnel.
She's sent a couple complaining about my so-called foul mouth
and I've been spoken to about it and have to watch my choice of
words when she's nearby; and also has sent emails suggesting that
myself and others cease engaging in rubber band wars, playing
poker, and other "shenanigans," as she terms them; and she absolutely
hates Linda. Why does Rat-Face hate Linda? For her beauty and
good cheer, of course; and because Linda's tactful, well-spoken,
and popular; and because Linda's a favorite of Mother Nature,
while she -- Rat-Face -- is something all men of taste flee from.
But when Linda's with me in my cube the Cutsie Club and what it
stands for -- pretentiousness, frustration, pettiness, envy, living
death -- dissolves from awareness and disappears!
Listen: in any workplace there are unhappy, depressed, stupid
people whose only pleasure in life is killing the happiness of
others, and seeking to have things run according to the dictates
of their dismal personalities; so you've got to -- I repeat, got
to! -- counterbalance their unhealthy influence by having sex
under their noses at work as much as possible! This, I am proud
to say, is one of my defining philosophies! And I'm definitely
a happier and healthier man on account of it!
So what's Sweetie Pie doing now? She's slung both of her legs
over my shoulders and is leaning back, savoring the movement of
my tongue inside her. I admit it: we've ceased to factor much
caution into the equation of our pleasure; from perhaps being
overrash we've gone to definitely being overrash! Isn't it priceless
when that happens? when sheer delight overrides concern for escaping
detection and one finds oneself assuredly exposed to the risk
of being caught having at a cutie's kitty at the office? My face
is far too deep inside the embrace of Linda's thighs for me to
keep an eye on the floor and watch for telltale approaching shadows.
And Linda's head is flung way too far back within the walls of
my cubicle for her to see either; that is, assuming her eyes are
even open, which they aren't. For perhaps slightly under five
minutes we brave this blind spot and take a gamble, placing our
continued employment at the firm in the hands of chance.
Now, I don't mean to suggest that a feeling of uneasiness isn't
with us; we're well aware of how vulnerable we are to detection:
we're not so far gone that we've forgotten we're at work. What
I'm saying is that delightful sensations have overcome us to the
extent we're exposing ourselves to detection for the sake of indulging
them; and, of course, this condition of being exposed to detection
heightens our pleasure! We dare not remain so vulnerable for long,
and yet -- God, I need to get in another forceful tongue-flutter!
I want to wet my face for a few seconds longer! I want to feel
Linda's inner tension shoving it's way down my throat and spreading
throughout me! What a wonderful conjoinment of opposites: thrilling
to Linda's energy as she hovers on the brink of release while
also uneasy about being found out! Her eyes are still closed,
she's breathing erratically -- oh, a few more moments -- a few
more and I ought to be pushing her over! But, again, the perils
of discovery! -- we've been vulnerable for far too long already
-- certainly for longer than five minutes! Her eyes open and she's
suddenly looking at me with alarm through eyes blurry-intense
with arousal -- I almost think I hear a rustle of clothes nearby.
I pull my head up; Linda's sweet nectar is on my lips and chin.
She sits upright abruptly, believing danger is nigh. But it's
nothing; no one's approaching…
But now we're going to play it safe, compel ourselves to be conscientious
with regard to the preservation of our employment. Linda's going
to remain sitting upright on the edge of my desk with her dress
covering her thighs as I complete what I began, employing my fingers
alone. We've already tempted fate enough and have, I fully admit
it, succeeded in frightening ourselves: the firm is our means
of making a living, after all! We need to guard against getting
carried away to the point where we're willing to risk termination
for the sake of a few more minutes of unbridled stimulation! So,
while leaning close to her and as she embraces me, I slip two
fingers inside Linda's warm wet lovebox again, alternate between
shoving them deep and almost withdrawing. I'm our sentinel and
my eyes are unwaveringly trained upon the floor at the entrance
to my cubicle -- which by no means prevents me from savoring Linda's
tense embrace as I caress her from the inside. She's pressing
her mouth against my left ear; her sultry breath's tickling me
with tingles; suddenly, she grasps me tighter and presses her
mouth hard against my neck to muffle her moans as her body shudders
-- and I'm laughing to think I've guided Linda towards another
release while the clueless members of the Cutsie Club continue
to, as they always do, jabber a lot of pretentious nonsense within
earshot; and to suppose themselves hot on the trail of all rulebook-flaunting
goings on in the office.
Yes, you silly failed artist would-be stompers out of all frolic
at the firm, I address you directly: I've had so much fun right
under your noses! I've muffdived and coated my lips with succulent
pussy juice again and again while located only a few yards away!
I've grabbed ass and shoved my face in tits and had my cock sucked!
I've watched the faces of comely girls get radiant with the afterglow
of consummation! I've had my neck sucked to redness below my shirt
collar, where you can't see it! I've passed you in the hall, even
spoken with you about a assignment, while seeming to float above
the floor in a delightful post love daze! And I'll continue to
do all of these things! And
what I say to you boring, stupid, petty little nonentities is:
Ha! Ha! Ha!
And what I say to you, Linda darling, is: I still miss you and,
boy, did we ever have a lot of fun! And, when you return
to town for a visit…
Well, you know…
for Episodes: No.
1, No. 2, No.
3, No. 4, No. 5
Kicks on Company Time (III),
or Cubicles and the Cutsie Club
© 2002 by Sliptongue, Inc.