No one knows for sure that Elena doesn't wear panties to work. She's been doing it for a couple of years now, even in the winter. It's become first nature. What would her parents and grandparents think if they found out? But, hey, she figures--they're back in Manila and there is no need to trouble them with this bit of information. This is something that only she knows about herself. She's twenty-six and it's time she does what she wants.
She enjoys the silky slide of her slips against her legs, the swish-swish texture of her gartered stockings as they rub when she walks. The sound is like a whisper up to her pussy. This secret makes her feel alive, closer to an edge she likes to dangle over. Sometimes in meetings, she crosses and re-crosses her legs while giving the impression of being deep in thought. Her motion gets the attention of most of the men so that afterwards, as she's walking down the hall, she knows they cast lingering looks at her ass as they walk behind her. Do any of them wonder why she has no panty line under her tight skirts?
It's spring at last. To celebrate, she's worn a shorter skirt, something gauzy but lined. The hem rides a couple of inches above her knees. The skirt is cut full so that it swirls out and billows as she moves about, and the soft clinging material feels like tiny caresses on her ass. The uniform skirts in the Manila Catholic convent school were nothing like this. At her desk, she sits with her knees slightly parted. This way, the skirt falls between her thighs and when she scoots her swivel chair over to answer the phone, the fabric rubs against her pussy and makes her shudder with pleasure. "Hello?" she says, her voice cracking from her state of arousal as she greets her caller. It's George, the head of security. He says she has a package at the front reception desk. Does she want to pick it up now or should he have someone deliver it when things are a little slow?
"A package?" she says, her voice purring. "Who's it from?" She loves surprises.
"There's no return address or card or anything," George says. She can see him in her mind's eye. Not a bad looking guy. Mid-fifties, maybe. Big, beefy, very American-looking. He has kind brown eyes and a soft look about his face. Perhaps to give himself a more hardened appearance, George keeps his round head shaved, completely free of any hair. For some reason, Elena thinks this is something crucial to notice about George. As she cajoles him for more information about the package, she has a flash image of him sitting under her desk, his large hands stroking her thighs, rubbing her skirt up and down. She imagines his breath flowing up her skirt to her very center. "Aww, George," she wheedles, "is it junk mail? Is it a packet of coupons?"
George laughs quietly. "I don't know, hon. Look, I'll bring it up before lunch."
She hears the crackle of his walkie-talkie. "Okay, if I'm not at my desk, just put it on my chair."
* * *
By noon, Elena is fidgety. She's used every excuse to decline her co-workers' invitations to lunch. Not hungry. Big breakfast. Waiting for a call. Really, though, she's waiting for George. She can't get him out of her mind now. She doesn't even care about the package.
Mike pokes his head over her cubicle wall. "Want me to get you your favorite at Subway? A meatball grinder?" Mike has flirted with her since she first started working next to him. "Meatball grinder" has become a euphemism between them for "lunch time quickie." Not that they've ever had sex or even a date or a drink after work. Mike is safely married and monogamous. He just likes to provoke.
