Elena's Cubicle

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.

Elena scowls at him and throws an eraser his way. Mike ducks and makes groaning noises from over the wall. "Ow ow ow, I've been wounded!" The eraser comes flying back over their partition and lands on her lap...thwack, right there, above her pussy. The impact gives her a tiny jolt. She shakes her head and puts the eraser away.

The division has gone quiet around her. It's Friday. People are going to take slightly longer lunches in celebration of the coming weekend. She smooths her skirt over her thighs and allows herself a flight into reverie. Hmmm, George again. This time she stands over him, stroking his pate, running her slim fingers over his head. He groans as she discovers the imperceptible bumps and dents in his skull. He puts his hands on her hips and holds her tightly, his warmth seeping through the fabric, warming her skin. As she explores his baldness further, he grips her tighter, palms pressing her ass, stroking the area from her lower back to her upper thighs. It must occur to him that he feels no panties. She feels his hands stop moving and then--

Suddenly George in the flesh plops down in her visitor's chair, just to the side of her desk. He looks a little foolish with a large basket of flowers on his lap--a colorful arrangement of daffodils and lilies. Elena looks up at him in surprise. She feels her face grow hot, getting caught in her daydream about this very man. George's head seems even balder today, if that is possible.

"Hey," he smiles. "You looked deep in thought there. Your eyes were a million miles--"

She laughs nervously. "Those for me?" she asks more abruptly than her upbringing would consider gracious. She leans forward to take the basket, but George holds on to it firmly. Elena sits back, puzzled. George says nothing, just sits there with a grin and a soft look in his eyes. The overhead fluorescent lighting makes his head so shiny, she can't stop darting looks at him there.

Self-consciously, George rubs his head. "Just shaved this morning. I've seen you looking, you know." A smile teases at the edges of his mouth.

His admission makes her catch her breath. She's been obvious? God, what an embarrassment. She shifts in her chair. Her skirt catches beneath her and rides up. George gestures at the flowers. The tallest lily dances under his breath. "They came in this morning, maybe 9. I watered them a little, just to make sure--"

Elena reaches for them again, this time taking hold of the basket handle with more force. She manages to wrest the flowers from him, not realizing that her skirt has lifted up and the hem now rests sweetly at her crotch. George stands and takes the basket from her. His movement is gentle but assured. He puts the basket on the floor behind her chair. Elena watches him, barely breathing. He's full of surprises today.

He squats in front of her on his meat haunches and pulls her chair closer to him. His eyes are glued to her lap. Elena looks down and gasps. Peeking from between her partially open thighs is her pussy, her pubic hair a small, dark nest beneath the edge of the skirt. "Wait--" she says and tries to pull her skirt down. At the very same moment, George leans forward and plants a kiss in the middle of her pubic hair. It's the softest kiss, really, just a touch and a breath of air.

"Okay," she laughs, trying to pass it off as an awkward moment. She can still recover her dignity with some quick thinking.

George shakes his head at her. He's pushed her skirt up around her waist and is kissing her again with a little more pressure. Oh oh oh...what if someone sees? Elena tries to close her legs. She grips his head to push him away. He pushes back just enough so he doesn't tip her over in the chair but so he is also able to insert the tip of his tongue...oh God, right there, where it really counts.

Elena strokes his head, lost in the sensation of his tongue on her and his bald dome in her palms. In a dreamy haze, she feels his large warm hands caressing her hips and the sides of her ass. He's developed a rhythm now and his head moves up and down smoothly. His chin presses her thighs apart. Her skirt slips over his head partially covering his face from her view. All she sees now is his shiny head moving slow and easy as he pleases her. She feels giddy and edgy. Oh, what if someone comes back from lunch? What if Mike peeks over the cubicle wall?

George is moaning, inhaling her. His pleasure is apparent in his renewed attacks with his tongue. She feels warm moisture rolling down the insides of her thighs. He tips the chair back slightly, adjusting his angle of approach. He's taking her entire pussy into his mouth, outer lips, inner lips, all of it, softly sucking and alternately licking. He pauses and then applies the pointed tip of his tongue to her attentive clit.

Too quickly, Elena feels a warm tingle run from the backs of her knees up her thighs and through her pussy, signalling a spiralling orgasm. She claps a hand over her mouth and muffles her cries. "Oh, God, oh George," she shouts into her palm. She squeezes her legs, trying to close them, but the pressure seems to egg him on and he calmly continues to suck and lick, suck and lick, seeing her well over the edge. Finally, when he senses her completion, he releases her and emerges from under her skirt, his face sweaty and reeking of her musk. Elena lolls her head back in the chair, drained of energy. What would good manners dictate that she do or say now? Her skirt is rumpled and twisted around her waist. George grins at her, that soft look on his face again. With his right hand, he cups her pussy, palm flat against her mound. "You taste so fine, honey. I've been watching you walk by every morning, tossing me a smile, checking out my head."

Elena sighs and strokes his head, feeling the ironic combination of smooth skin and hard bone beneath. "What about you?" she asks, glancing down at his crotch.

George groans and stands up. "We don't have enough time right now." He must be wearing tight briefs because there isn't obvious evidence of any sexual arousal on his part. He takes her small hand in his large one and places it on his crotch. Oh, but there *is* something good in there, something nice, long and hard. "This is for you," he drawls.

"After work?" she asks.

"Oh yeah, after work," he laughs. "I like to take lots of time."

Elena shivers. She stands up on wobbly legs, trying to right her appearances. George helps steady her on her feet. His hands are hot on her arms, making her skin tingle and glow. She hears voices approaching down the hallway. People are trickling back in after lunch.

George winks at her, wiping her juices from his face. He holds his hand to his nose and inhales. "Mmm," he says. "Maybe I won't wash my hands for a while." He laughs at the look of shock on her face. "By the way, the flowers are from me."

Elena watches him walk out of her cubicle. She stands at the entrance and follows his movement down the hallway. He mock-salutes Mike who is on his way in with a paperbag from Subway, probably for her. Elena sighs--oh that big, beefy man. What will he do to her after work?