In your office I might think of you in an above the knee Khaki skirt, white blouse, white thong, white lace bra, hair tied back. The lights in your office might need to be dim and it might need to be late, after all your local coworkers have left for the day but you.
I am thinking about someone associated with your work, someone you find attractive, someone you may even have a small crush on, sitting in your office, in a chair, facing you, waiting. I'm thinking about them allowing you to see their eyes walk up and down you, their eyes lingering on your crossed legs and then on the buttons of your blouse. Maybe when you cross your legs the other way you would glance up and still see them watching you. You might not even cross your legs, uncomfortable under their scrutiny, instead sitting with your legs close together, or even open a little. They might enjoy seeing you reacting under their stare. They might enjoy the recognition when you don't cross your legs. They might wait to see if something appears in your eyes or speaks in your body language.
You might stand up and walk across your office to get something. They might reach out their hand and stop you, putting it on your leg, just at the edge of your skirt. You might hesitate, not sure what to do. You might hesitate still as their hand squeezes, uncertain more as it slowly moves up a few inches, rolling to the inside of your thigh. Hesitant and feeling butterflies appear, you might stay there waiting. Nervous of acknowledging the touch and making it real. Nervous of not having already slapped the hand away. Nervous of the next few minutes no matter what you do.
The watcher wouldn't know your thoughts, but he would read your reaction. He would read your hesitation. He would feel you trembling under his touch and know of some conflict inside your head. He would decide to move forward gently and slowly. He would take his time rubbing your thigh, edging his hand consistently up, but doing so millimeters at a time. He would squeeze, feeling the nerves inside you building. He would read your muscle tension and at the right moment he would start back down your thigh just as slowly. His hand moving down easing tension in your mind. The need to react fading with each gentle stroke lower. Finally your breathing coming again. The imminent danger past.
For him slow would be smart. Slow would ease the pressure of uncertainty. It would ease the pressure of reality, giving time to build anticipation. Giving time for your thoughts to shift away from how this could happen. Thinking about the warmth of his touch and not the strangeness. Thinking about the contact on your skin. Not looking at him or his hand. Not noticing your other leg moving to give room. Not noticing your skin feeling warmer. Not noticing your breathing getting deeper.
But he would notice your breathing. He would notice the tension draining from your muscles. He would notice your warm skin under his hand. Even changing directions again. He would sense you waiting. He would sense you anticipating. He would sense your thoughts focused on his hand. Lightly gripping the inside of your knee, fingers stroking while moving upward. Gripping and releasing, walking lightly up and under the edge of your skirt. Tracking little circles over warmer skin now. Back of his hand brushing the inside of your other thigh, moving that leg out further again. You breathing going from deep to nothing.
