![]() We got promotions we inspired others, lifted group morale because we were so shiny and "on." Clearly, this arrangement was benefiting the company. My lover and I upheld our professional reputations while mind-fucking via e-mail, building up the lust all afternoonĪnd rushing back to my place for a lecherous love-fest. Using exceptional creativity, finesse and time-management skills - qualities that any company will try toĮncourage in tedious seminars, I might add - we escaped reprimand. ![]() There were windows outside his window, peepholes for all the other yearning pervs in distant buildings to spy on us. When I'd get up, I would place my fabulously high heel on his crotch and smolder. Hyper-femme: a white garter strap, lace, satin and creamy thigh. When I'd take a seat in his guest chair I'd cross and uncross my legs, flashing hints of He would look at me with a feverish, teasing, "Darn you!" expression that would quickly turn toĮrotic alertness, like a cat spotting a rustle in the grass. Sight of the first flush of a tasty, sexual predicament. Zinger, bound to blow the pants off any hot-blooded male, I could either wait for the chirp of an incoming response or wander down to his office to catch ![]() When we passed in the hall, our mysterious smiles confirmed our collusion: We had a secret, slippery rapport that would not survive in the lunch room.Īnd so, our e-mail evolved from sexual politics to personal confessions to a wanker's wet dream a flurry of fuck-and-sucks, Lord have mercy! If I wrote a His response to my comment about - of all things - pro-sex feminism was an eager stream of questions, revealing his appetite for more probing conversation. We were absolutely alone, connecting online. Our first private e-mail exchange was, symbolically, our first kiss. I began fetishizing business attire,įantasizing about him yanking off his corporate-color tie to restrain my wrists and then laying me across the conference room table he salivated over the thought of me, going presto-change-o, from modest professional to sex kitten, blowing him under his desk as the phones continued to ring and ring. Decorum, and our superficial obedience to all its demands and advisories, incited insatiable hunger, a reckless, deviant imperative. Between phone calls and word processing, I would have idle thoughts of flouncing into his office and mounting him on his chair before he could protest - fast and furious, decorumīut decorum was, as it turned out, the most intense turn-on. ![]() Queen Bitch, librarian and I would gauge his response by the darkness of his pupils and his enthusiastic greetings. I tested his perv radar by wearing outfits that suggested, oh so subtly, assorted sexual roles: Catholic school girl, We would blush when we were caught staring. At first I had no idea that he, too, heard the slutty siren's call most afternoons, when business memos would strangely metamorphose into Victorian porn with their naively sexual My secret lover happened to be just down the hall, another upstanding office perv in our Fortune 500 company. I have sent many nasty notes about "filing procedures" or "administrativeĭuties" that, lo and behold, inspire immediate replies and relentless follow-ups. We title our messages blandly, to discourage snoops from drawing the right conclusion about our twisted nature. There are others like me, though, going tippety-tap at a frantic speed, reeling from an erotic directive from an e-mail amour, oblivious to the din of And what a stereotypical transgression besides! That is for feckless, muddy-brained wankers. Never will you see a pornographic Web site in my Internet visit log. I am a "team player" who aims to "delight the customer," on the condition that I satisfy my need to perv away during the slack time. I can use words like "expedite" and "interface" without wincing. Objectively speaking, I am a lovely young lady, with a big, bright, customer-service smile, flouncy skirts, proper Mary Janes, a Nordstrom card and a blatant preference for clean living. Mind you, I am not at all the shifty-eyed, scuttling deviant you might expect to be confessing such sins. I wrote all of my freelance erotica, essays and reviews while pretending to "work." I have had figurative and literal sex on the clock. Unused stairwell, a sense of timing that allows me to make the most of my co-workers' absence or inattention and dive headfirst into a steaming miasma ofįantasies and raunchy, electronic repartee. I have an instinct for intrigue, an eye for the isolated corner or Indulging in shockingly noncorporate activities on company time. As an affable, unrepentant office pervert, I have grown accustomed to
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