At the office, on my desk, I keep a silvered glass globe, somewhat like a Christmas tree bauble. It reflects, like a fish-eye lens, all that is around it in startling detail. Yet to try to see what it is itself is impossible, for all it does is reflect. Get close to look at it and all you will see is your own eye, the black of the pupil deep and shiny. And there is nothing more to the globe -- it is all surface -- and on the inside, like the Christmas tree ornament, it is empty.
I stared at the globe. There was something about working in the office on Saturday mornings that made me horny. Perhaps it was the drudgery of sitting at my computer crunching numbers or tapping out reports for the month-end deadline. Perhaps it was resentment for the boss, Fedder, bubbling under the surface and sublimating into something else. Or perhaps it was just the dank, motionless air, the darkness of the empty offices and the languid shadows that stirred my stony loneliness. But inevitably, by mid-morning, the emotional lump in my heart, that pit of desire, had throbbed outward to my skin and warmed it, turned it lustful and desirous, even as I continued to hammer away at my work.
Fedder, the boss, was rarely there on Saturday -- a relief. He was exacting, overbearing, intimidating and -- hugely successful. In Fedderland, there was only one way to do things -- his way. And there were no boundaries, for everything was his: He might read your mail before you got it, and mark it up with his directions; he might ask why you kept a separate file of your work in your desk; or where you were on your lunch hour. He probed everywhere, and where he probed he questioned, and corrected and set straight. There was no privacy from the probe and, frankly, if we all had not been paid so well, none of us would have worked there. But paid like princes we were, and we marched to Fedder's tune.
He had only one blind spot - computers, and was totally illiterate where they were concerned. This was a matter of great glee to the rest of us, who regularly exchanged emails deriding him, and tittered at how the spell-check regularly wanted to change his name from Fedder to Fodder. He delegated all computer matters to Shirley, a matronly secretary who was only partially computer literate herself.
Mid-morning, last Saturday, that point was almost upon me when the desire between my legs would overtake the discipline of my mind, when I heard some steps and rustling in the hallway. Folks usually don't come in on the weekends, so I knew to be a bit careful. I got up from my desk and peeked out my door. There, down the hall, at a secretary's desk outside Fedder's corner office, a young, red-haired woman was looking through a file folder. The light streamed in from the window behind her, and I could see her young, lithe body outlined beneath a flimsy shift.
She had perky breasts and a round behind, skin white as milk with a spray of pinkish freckles across her nose. She moved with the jerky aplomb of a young woman who thinks she's just learned about everything, as she put the folder down on the desk and turned to the cabinet to take out another. I realized quickly that she was looking a personnel files - Shirley, the secretary - had left early on Friday and apparently had failed to lock the cabinet.
The young woman took out another file and placed it on the desk before her, then sat down. So intent on her reading was she that she was oblivious to my stealthily slipping down the hall.
She began to do something that I'd never seen before, something unbelievable. She first raised her left hand to her right breast, and began caressing the nipple. I could see it harden beneath the thin fabric, and as it did, she squeezed it between her index finger and thumb. Then she pinched it a bit, rubbed the breast with her entire hand, and pinched again, hard, twisting the nipple a bit. I imagined the tip of it getting harder and redder as she worked it, and the downy hairs on her breasts standing up while the backs of her legs turned to goose bumps. In the meantime, her other hand slipped between her legs. I watched as her fingers pulled back the dress, and the hand worked in a circular motion between her legs.
Already my cock had gotten thick in my jeans, and I was stroking the tip of it through them. It was throbbing and straining, and I could feel a small drop of wetness at its tip. As she worked one hand on her breast and the other on her crotch, I increased the pace of the strokes on my dick, which was pushing mercilessly against my underwear. I imagined slipping it between those white thighs, up that skirt and into the wet recesses of her pussy.
But of course I couldn't do that.
I had a better idea. I slipped my hand into my jeans and pushed my dick down to where it wouldn't be obvious.
Then I stepped out of the office and purposefully strode down the hall toward her. I cleared my throat loudly. The young woman immediately dropped her hands, closed the folder and gasped. Then she stood up, as she turned and saw me. Her face turned red.
"What do you think you're doing here?" I demanded in a strict voice.
"Oh! You must be Mr. Fedder," she said pertly. "I'm Jennifer. I'm a friend of Shirley's, the secretary? You know she had to leave early yesterday, and she asked me to bring her home some files to work on so they'd be ready Monday."
Why, she thought I was Fedder I'll never know. But it gave me a plausible opening and I decided to play the role. "Let me see that file," I demanded. She handed it over demurely. It was a personnel file for Stacy, a slutty tramp who worked in Receivables. There were some rumors that Stacy was into cybersex and that Shirley had tipped off Fedder, who was going to lower the boom, soon. I glanced in the file she'd been reading. Then I understood. My next move was obvious.
"I can just gather up the files Shirley needed and get out of here. She wanted to make sure you had everything for Monday," she said. Her initial perkiness was gone. I could see that she was getting nervous. Her face was fully flushed, and both of her nipples were standing out prominently.
