Email from Cindy's Box #06

I can imagine working. I really am, you know, getting work done. Between bite size chunks of real stuff, I take these... breaks. For funzies. That's all. I'm not too busy today. When I am, I don't really get on my naughty email, but, today, I'm not so busy. I'm waiting on things from, well, from all over the place. A guy on the West Coast is hunting down a particular inspector to get more details for me on an off-hand comment from a report from last November. A girl in one of our facilities is sifting through some logistical data for me. A few guys in drafting are working through about 20 pages of comments I gave them on a recent document we were going to publish. A few pieces of my own work are still making their way through the building for general review. So, today, I'm just catching up on the small stuff.

Like my emails. ^.^

In fact, I've been catching up on so many that, well, let's just say it's good I don't have any real work to do, because I certainly wouldn't be able to concentrate on it!

In spite of the weather, which is ever changing these past few weeks, I went with a skirt again today. Partly because, well, I don't have that many professional looking pants, and partly because I knew I didn't have much work to do. So I wanted to be prepared in case he emailed me with another... request.

And he did.

I glance back, my ears sharp for footsteps as I log in. I skim my inbox, seeing his name at the top. Opening it, my face may be white, but I already feel flush. I always do when I do my naughty emails at work, but this time... I bite my lip. I can do that, I smirk to myself, clicking the "Mark as unread" option. Footsteps! I alt+tab over to a spec document I have open in acrobat as cover.

I roll back in my chair, smiling friendly-like at my passing coworker before I get up and head to the ladies' room. In the stall, I pull up the sides of my slim skirt, hooking my thumbs into my panties and swiftly slipping them off. I bite my lip again, looking around the empty stall. I hadn't planned this very well, and I didn't have anywhere to put them.

But I'm quite determined to take my bra off, too, just like he'd asked. The burning between my thighs will definitely make certain that gets done.

I reach up inside the back of my sweater, unhooking my bra. With some effort, I manage to pull each shoulder strap out and around my arms, leaving the cups loosely fixed to my breasts by the tightness of the red knit. The bra can wait there for now, and I can probably ball up the panties small enough to stay out of sight in my hand.

Okay, I'm ready to go back. I can easily slip both into my purse once I get to my cube. I can do this.

God, I have to do this... if I don't get out of this stall, my skirt is definitely not going to stay down for long...

I make my way back to my cube. I'm halfway down the straight hall that ends at my desk when I get waylaid by a guy in another group. I'm taking one of their work items right now, because they're so busy. He's just been through my comments on it, the ones that the drafting department is looking at, and he wants to make sure the scope meets their overall philosophy on the project. The very unique philosophy that their project is so freaking far behind that they need to push this stuff out the door, no matter how crappy it is. I know that, and I tell him that my comments were seriously reduced in scope for that reason, and only the really technically necessary stuff is being done.

I keep my fingers tight. My bra hangs loosely. I can feel it as he gibbers on, ever so slightly yet ever so obviously out of place. Maybe not to him, though. I glance down the hall at my cube, and you walk by it, my manager. You seem to be looking for me as you peer in. You pause, then step up to my computer.

Oh fuck.

I stare down at you as you look at my monitor for a few seconds. My hand is tight around my panties, my pussy suddenly burning again. This guy is still talking, and I'm still agreeing. You step out of my cube, spotting me down the hall. You look straight at me, then point from me to your office, marching in. I lick my lips. I tell this guy I've gotta go, and gently push off. I don't realize I just pressed my panties against him until I'm almost to my cube, and I forget it almost instantly when I see my screen.

Fucking Gmail.

I love Gmail, it's pretty slick. It got a great user interface, and I love the way it saves drafts and such. I use the draft feature quite a lot, in fact, to keep working copies of my stories easily accessible, with a super-reliable auto-save. But it has one extremely annoying feature: whenever the inbox reloads, say, right after you've mark an email as "unread," the Gmail tab pops to the front of your desktop. Even if you have acrobat running a spec on top of it to hide that very inbox.

That very inbox that my boss had just read. That very inbox my boss had clearly just clicked on the first email in. That very email that had just left me standing here with a tightly balled handful.

"Cindy, can you come in here for a moment?" I'm standing just outside your door, staring at my computer screen.

"Yes..." I meekly step in, putting my hands behind my back, standing in front of you.

"Could you close the door, Cindy?" You nod, directing me, and I turn, softly closing the latch, hidden now behind the frosted glass.

I stand there, panic stricken, the balled panties in my fist, my bra embarrassingly askew under my sweater.

It's not, like, you're not a slave driver. You're awesome, really. I'm constantly badgering you about the most inane details, and you always take my questions seriously. You're a great manager, a leader even. It makes me want to do a better job, because you set that standard. A consummate professional.

And now, well. Now I've let you down. I am, quite clearly, unprofessional.

"Take a seat, Cindy." I lick my lips and sit at the little conference table you have crammed into your office in front of your desk. The whole building is like this, tiny and cramped. Having an enclosed office at all is a pretty high mark. And there's meetings constantly going on in here. That conference table is well used, as cramped as it is.

My hands are under it now, hidden from your view. I loosen my grip, nervously playing with the panties I'm almost positive you know I've taken off.

After a second of quiet, you speak. "Cindy, it's important to have a delineation between our personal and professional lives."

I choke. God, you know. Of course you know, I know you know, you opened that email, you read it. But now, now it's concrete, now it's real. Now, it's like, you've said you know.

"When we're in the workplace, it's important to maintain a level of professionalism not only as a reflection of the organization, but to ensure our actions are considered by others as taken with due technical expertise." You pause and I swallow, my eyes wide, my heart thudding with each beat in my chest.

"Over the past year, I've gotten the impression that, when tasked with something, you genuinely take ownership. You ensure you have not only the necessary level of technical knowledge before you act, but that those actions have the breadth of scope and insight to more than simply react to issues. You're proactive, and you find solutions."

I nod, still toying nervously with the panties under the table. My breathing is shallow, and I'm having trouble processing what you're saying. Are you saying I'm good at my job?

"So when I requested that you remove your underwear, it was my expectation that that request would be met with the same level of professionalism and tenacity as you approach every project."

I stare at you. I try to reassemble the words you just said, but they're coming out as nonsense.

"I presume you've got your panties in hand under the table there?" You nod toward my fidgeting. I pause. "Put your hands on the table, Cindy."

I bite my lip. Did you just say you were the one who sent me that email? The thudding gets louder as I pull my hands out, the teal and black striped, french-cut panties spilling onto the table. I've been emailing with him... with you... for months...

You shake your head, tsking at me. "It's quite plain you're still wearing the bra."

I stare at the panties.

"Let's have it, then." You hold out a hand. I look at your empty palm, then give you the panties. "The bra, Cindy. Where's your head?"

After a pause, I stand up, sliding the chair back. I reach under the front of my sweater, easily pulling the bra down. The tight knit fits snugly around my now-freed breasts as I place the colorful bra with its match.

You turn, unhesitatingly, sliding open a drawer of your "sensitive business" cabinet, the one with the complicated combination lock. You drop the underwear in, behind some file folders. As you do, I spy the bulge in your pants and suddenly realize the blood coursing through me in my panic has been pouring all of its heat in between my thighs.

Almost shakily I finally manage to speak, "I think there's a scoping issue on this task."

I look at me quizzically, shutting the drawer and turning. My eyes flash between yours and the bulge.

I build up courage. "This type of request is, by nature, only the foundational effort for a later..." I don't have the word. "Event?"

You grin. "And what would that be?" My heart races again, but not with panic any more.

My mind reels. From a naughty email on a slow work day to this. I can already feel the wetness. "I'm certain we could make use of this coffee table..."

Once, when we were reviewing a set of drawings, I made a comment to the drafters that they said would take months to implement. Because they're apparently all idiots. So I had them send me the drawings and I made the changes myself, in half an hour. You explained to me calmly about authority and division of labor and overstepping my bounds. You explained the requirements process for drawing changes, about the applicable organizational and industrial specifications and about the management oversight I'd completely ignored. And you said it all as calm as any conversation we'd ever had. But I spent that whole discussion in utter and abject terror solely because of the look that had flashed across your face when I'd first mentioned what I'd done.

That look flashes at me now.

"Cindy, I think there's certainly room for a future evaluation of that proposal, but at this time it wouldn't be appropriate, particularly considering my present assessment of your level of expertise and experience in that field."

"Oh..." I know I've stumbled with that offer. But my aching pussy won't let it go. "Then I'll work up to it." I say, more firm than I feel.

You smile, utterly unsurprised at my eagerness, then glance at the clock on the wall behind me. "I actually have a video conference here in a few minutes."

"I'll be ready whenever you're available." I turn to the door, my heart racing, a grin beaming across my face, my burning wet slit aching for me to sneak it a few soft touches in my cube.

"Oh, no, you'll be staying."

"Am I part of the VC?" I tried to think about real work, but nothing could come to mind except that I had no underwear on and I'd just offered to suck off my boss.

"You'll be under my desk."

And now you've accepted.

"Will I fit?" I bite my lip, stepping up to you. You pull out your chair and motion me down. I smile shyly, bending in.

"Go on, Cindy. Let's get this moving. I have to get this VC going." You pat my butt gently and I feel a soft shiver up my spine with the first truly sexual touch between us.

I can do this. I'll be awesome. I'm always awesome. "Yes, of course." My racing heart doesn't seem quite as certain.

I crawl in and turn. It's hardly roomy, I barely fit. I manage to face you as you sit down, your legs taking up what little space I have to move in as they press around me.

I lick my lips, looking at the bulge between your spread thighs. I reach up, running my hand along it, feeling the hard heat through your slacks.

You type for a minute as my hand traces along your cock. There's no room for my head to fit up there. I can't even open your fly from here. I don't know what I'm supposed to do, and I'm about to ask when I hear that familiar tone. The VC is loaded.

In the apparent guise of adjusting for the camera, you shift your chair down, opening up the gap between the hard stiffness beneath my hand and the underside of your desk. My fingers delicately find their way to the tab of your zipper now, and I work it down slowly and silently. The front of your boxers are just a loose opening, and your thick cock is already pressing out of it.

I push up the waist of your boxers and pants, slipping the hole over the head of your cock. It pushes out, free, and my hand closes around you as your salty scent fills the space under the desk.

I pull you toward me, bringing my head up between your thighs, drawing my hair to one side. With your cock drawn down, I slip my lips around it, slowly pressing it into my mouth.

Hot and hard, it fits in there about as well as I fit under the desk, and I sloppily pull back with a soft noise. You cough, covering for my carelessness.

This isn't going quite as well as I'd hoped. But I can figure it out. I'll just try again.

"Just a moment, I seem to be having a problem with my audio." You say, and I pause as you slip down, out of your chair. The speakers are plugged into the computer, both of which which are on your desk. But they can't see that. They can't see you pull a handful of zip-ties from a drawer, putting a pair loosely like bracelets around both of my wrists, either. They're tight enough that they can't slip over my hands, but only just. Not even snug.

You guide my hands behind my back, and I let you in under your desk. My breath catches as your body presses against mine, the warmth between my legs intensifying as your arms wrap around me. "No hands." You whisper before pulling away. I look up at you as you slide back into your chair, keeping your stiff cock well hidden from the camera.

"That should do it." You say, sliding your legs around me again as I realize why you embraced me. The zip-ties around my wrist are now connected by a third attached to some part of the underside of your desk.

No hands. You've made sure of that.

Your cock is pointed much too straight up for me to be able to just wrap my mouth around it from under here. There's no way I can even get to it, especially tied to the back of the space under the desk. I kiss softly at the base of your shaft, hoping you'll get the message.

You do, and your hand slides down between your legs, tilting your cock to my face. I hurriedly slide my mouth around it, and as I do, you press into me, sliding deeper under your desk, your cock shoving almost roughly into my throat.

I gag, and try to pull off again, but my head strikes roughly against the drawer. My heart jumps as I realize not only am I pinned under the desk, but now I'm pinned onto your cock. I try twisting off, but can't. The only direction my head can go is down.

Too turned on to panic, I go the only way I can. I push your cock deep into my throat, then pull back, my head bumping against the desk well before I'm near pulling off. I push in again, faster, deeper, and again, until my lips are touching your slacks. I push in again, my face striking roughly against you, my free breasts jostling in my sweater with the abruptness of each shove. I pump again and again and my neck is already sore and it's so hot under there, but I can't stop because every pump against your cock sends a sensation through me almost like it was driving into my burning wet pussy. But no matter how fast I keep pounding against you, I can't get myself off, and my pussy aches for more and more.

I feel your cock tighten and tense, but I can't stop, I want it inside me, I need it inside me. My pussy is screaming for it to slam into me, rough and hard and brutally. The faster I slide my face into you, the worse I need it. The more my breasts shake, my nipples sliding, tickling along the inside of my sweater, the more intense the electric shock becomes that I get with every thrust.

You cum in my throat as I press down deeply onto you, the hotness pouring into me. Without missing a beat I pull up again as spurts continue to shoot out, and then push back down. Up and down, and I can feel you slowly softening in my mouth, the last drops of your salty cum dribbling across my tongue as you soften just so much that my face is finally freed from captivity. I gasp for a lungful of the musky air.

Your cock seems sated for now, but my heart is still racing, my pussy still burning for more. I struggle gently against my bonds, feeling out with my fingers, finding that you've hooked me to some bracket for the drawer. I need so badly to reach down there, to be sated as I've sated you, but I can't, which makes my need ever greater.

I sigh softly.

You nudge me with your toe. I'm making too much noise. I bite my lip, looking up at your crotch, your cock soft now, hanging gently out of your fly. I will it to grow, imagining it shoving into me. A tiny dribble of cum is threatening to spoil your pants. I lean in, lapping it up gingerly, my pussy aching as your flavor fills my mouth again.

You reach down, swatting me away, tucking yourself in quickly and closing your fly. I pout, ashamed. I've clearly not impressed you.

A moment passes as you talk, but I can't remove the image of your cock from my mind. It's shoving into my mouth again, only this time, when it pulls out, you flip me on my back. You lift my legs wide, pressing it slowly against my aching pussy. I moan softly as you enter me, your wetted cock sliding easily into my even wetter pussy. I exhale as you pull back, then cry out in a quiet squeal as you thrust in. Then another thrust. And another.

You nudge me with your foot again, more roughly this time. I'm making too much noise.

You slide back, bringing your feet together in front of me, popping off your shoes. Your plain black socks slide up my smooth leg. As you push the hem of my skirt up my thighs, I adjust, letting you expose me while you talk.

You aren't just trying to sneak a peak, though. I realize what you're really aiming for as one soft set of toes slides up along the inside of my thigh. I pull my knees apart, and you find what you're looking for.

Your toes are not your fingers, but you clearly know what to do. Your firm but gentle touch finds my hungry slit, and I can't help but press against you, my heart racing.

I bite my lip, struggling for silence as your toes find my clit, your foot gyrating ever so softly against it. Your cock comes back to my mind, and I want it again, I need it now.

Your toes aren't enough. I quickly realize they won't be enough. As you draw circles into me, you only heighten my unquenchable thirst. My spine tingles with every motion, but I realize those tingles will never become waves.

I'm in agony. My body is coursing with pleasure, and every drop you send into me aches as I know I won't make it to where I need to go.

But I can't stop pressing into you, the burning in the muscles of my legs as I grind against your foot is nothing compared to the burning in my pussy, and I keep grinding, hoping I can make it. But when your foot pulls away, I realize your VC is done, and I whimper. So close, and yet so far.

"Fuck me..." I say softly. "Fuck me now, right now." You lean in, grabbing your shoes, barely glancing at me as I beg. "I need your cock, I need it so badly."

You look down at your feet, tying your shoes.

"Please." I whisper.

"Cindy, you had everything you needed at the start. If you hadn't wasted it so early on, you would probably be much more satisfied with where you ended up." You give me a plain look, a blank look, as though I weren't screaming deep inside for you to ravage me.