Kinky Kicks on Company Time (III), or Cubicles and the Cutsie Club by Horace P. Hightower

Kinky Kicks on Company Time (III),
or Cubicles and the Cutsie Club

by Horace P. Hightower

Click for Episodes: No. 1, No. 2, No. 3, No. 4, No. 5

Ah, the office cubicle! The inventors and manufacturers of the cubicle have touted it as a means of making the typical office a more comfortable place -- a more humane place -- and I wholeheartedly agree with them. Instead of, on the one hand, being shut away from coworkers in a private office one is allowed to be among them; and instead of, on the other hand, being exposed to the gaze of entire floors full of people at naked desks, one's permitted some privacy on account of the dividing walls: for once the modern "innovators" have done it right and a comfortable balance has been achieved, permitting workers to feel neither overly isolated nor deprived of privacy. My love of the cubicle stems from the fact that its semi-privacy affords me opportunities galore of sensual titillation during working hours. A private office has its advantages, true enough: behind its locked door one can definitely indulge in a greater amount of intimacy than one would dare try in a cubicle. But a private office isn't without its pratfalls: others can easily see who enters and exits through its single exposed door, not to mention the suspicions a locked door always gives rise to. On the other hand, anything transpiring behind a locked door can't be proven and there's no need to be constantly fearful of an intrusion; but all these matters aside, one makes due with what one has. I have a cubicle, and so I make do with it.

Now my cubicle, thanks to my foresight when choosing it, is located in the right corner of the back of the large maze of cubicles which occupies my floor; in other words, no one can surprise me from behind or the right: it's to the front and left that myself and my partners must keep our eyes peeled and ears alert while amusing ourselves; actually, mostly only to the front, it being the only means of entering my cubicle. It's true that a head could pop over the divider to the left and I never forget the fact, but such is far less likely and only a small percentage of my coworkers are tall enough to do it. The fact that I needn't worry about anyone approaching from behind or the right is largely responsible for the sort of liberties I'm accustomed to taking. And while I might occasionally yearn for a closed door, an opportunity to fully disrobe and press my naked body tight against the silky skin of my current consort, I know that I've managed to obtain the most strategically advantageous situation given the circumstances. Besides, as I've said, I work the third shift: each night, after the far more populous second shift has cleared out, there are always ample opportunities in other locations of the firm for all the private encounters I could wish for.

But enough reflection on the nature of the cubicle and description of my situation: it's the fun I manage to have that matters.

So there I am seated at my computer, reading and jotting comments on a lengthy legal document: by all rights I should be bored out of my mind, but I'm not. Why? Because frolicsome Linda (not her actual name) is dead set on periodically prancing over to flash me! She seems to get a particular thrill out of doing it during the hours when the most people are around, and who am I to deprive a pretty brunette of a thrill? I must say it's very pleasant to reap the benefits of her thrill seeking nature!

What an engaging sight! She scampers into my area, yanks up her pleated plaid skirt, and -- lo! -- isn't wearing anything underneath! And shaved, of course! My gaze delightedly dances up her slender legs to the swollen lips between them and lingers -- I'm reaching for her to come closer, but she remains where she is, a yard away -- coquettishly gyrates her hips, does an about face, treats me to the sight of her ass. An unsurpassable ass: highest marks for shapeliness, firmness, and flawlessness of skin! And still undulating, the minx! I stand to approach and seize her -- she flings her dress down and dashes off while giggling: such pearls are the peals of her laughter!

I sit again and resume my work with the picture of Linda's randy rear whirling in my head. Well! She's doing her Miss Mischief thing again, indulging her little girl-brat alter ego! Dashing over to roust me with visuals and then disappearing before I can get my hands on anything! It's fun to be teased like this when conceited artsy idiots are being pompous a couple of cubes away! I always refer to them as the Cutsie Club, because all they ever do is speak in sickly affected tones -- pseudo intellectual know-it-all tones -- and because the substance of their conversation is a lot of pretentious, vapid, tedious nonsense. Nothing they say belongs to them: they glom their phrases from articles in the so-called trendy periodicals -- "trendy" in this case meaning whatever pop-culture-trash-masquerading-as-culture can be rammed down the throats of those stupid enough to fork a lot of money over to live the "lifestyle." The members of the Cutsie Club jabber a great deal as loudly as possible (to make certain others hear) about the artwork they never do; they analyze television shows and discover hidden themes and messages in them; they go out of their way to declare that they're bored with everything, convinced that this means they've lived full lives and the world has nothing more to offer. They imagine they are daring and original but they are actually thoroughly conventional creatures of no will who are easily pushed around by rules. They haven't an inkling of what goes on in the firm, sexwise; their limited imaginations and sluggish blood streams don't permit of even so much as suspecting such things. But they'd sure know what to do about it if they ever found out. Which brings me to another wonderful preoccupation of the Cutsie Club, and why I hate them so much.

It's curious how so-called artist types seem to be succeptible to becoming informants and enforcers. The moment they reach a point in their lives when they realize they have neither made a splash in the art world nor are likely to, they find themselves in desperate need of a new distraction. For some reason, this new distraction often takes the form of suddenly wanting to enforce every rule in existence. In the case of the Cutsie Club, the fact that they only blather and never actually create anything has left a lot of accumulated frustration gnawing at their peace of mind -- frustration that finds its outlet in faithfully reporting all violations of company policy. A recent coup of which I'm certain they're immensely proud is that they managed to get a security guard fired because they found him napping on a couch upstairs. Last month, they drew up and passed a petition around. The object of the petition was to forbid temps from entering our cubicle area; the temps were to remain in a separate room and communicate with us only by means of telephone. The reason for this ridiculous proposal? It seems a girl had spilled some juice on one of their phones by accident and, after seeing to it she was forever banned from making a living here, they hit upon the brilliant idea of restricting the movements of all temps. I know of no one outside of their circle who signed the thing and they appeared to be astonished at this.

The members of the Cutsie Club are as clueless and pathetic as they are envious and resentful; but they're nevertheless useful. Because what fun it is to amuse myself right under their noses each and every night! What fun it is to use them as a point of contrast; to set up oppositional tension; to thumb my nose at their failure to enjoy life by savoring my life to the fullest! Truth to tell, if they didn't exist I might have to invent them!

But back to fearless Linda and her antics. What a delight it is when she returns with mirthful face, edges in between the edge of my desk and my chair, and bends forward to dispense kisses! Linda always delivers on her flashing; after teasing, she treats. I grasp both cheeks of her wiggling ass as she flutters her tongue inside my mouth. Goddamn! How the soft firmness of her buttocks dances in my hands! What hunger erupts inside me! I yank her skirt to her chest before I half realize what I'm doing; I'm rubbing my cheeks against her supple stomach; soon kissing and nipping while moving downward, pausing just above her honeypot: I'm savoring anticipation before I take the plunge. All the while Linda's pressing herself against me, curling over my back, smooshing her ample breasts against the nape of my neck; her perfume's rippling through my nerves…

Yes, at the beginning of my shift I was reviewing an exceedingly dry legal document in a cluttered cubicle while being unable to completely blot out the stupid blathering of the Cutsie Club -- in bad light, surrounded by drab olive cubicle padding and a matching carpet splotched with coffee stains. But now Linda's fluid body is quivering against mine -- injecting me with rising waves of desire -- as my face hovers very close to her slippery, warm, open, willing pussy! And Sweetie's gently nibbling my ear and breathing into it heavily -- and doing some sort of throat-flutter, sigh, purr sort of thing -- and embracing me as if I'm a life preserver in stormy water! Shit, I'd pay to come to work!

And now the back of my chair's tipping towards the floor with our combined weight and we might spill onto the carpet! I transfer her to the desk; she's sitting there with her legs spread, pink flower on full display -- I'm truly in another world now -- God, how the blood seems to swish through my body like a whip! I dive -- slippery heat's all over my lips and chin and cheeks! I plunge with tongue, slip it as far inside her vagina as it'll reach -- her soft thighs close against both sides of my face -- she commences to suck at my neck! Are we being overrash? Perhaps…

On the other hand, we're experienced at this game: our eyes are on the alert to catch the shadow of anyone who might be approaching (what a nice touch, this: the considerate firm has placed the ceiling lights such that a person's shadow is visible before they are!). And our ears are cocked for footfalls. What's the procedure if an intruder approaches? I simply sit upright as Linda flings her dress into a more modest location; then -- presto -- we're two friends chatting, me in my chair and her on my desk.

Yes, I loathe the Cutsie Club and all their posturing babytalk that they think is the epitome of cleverness and that masks their devotion to the interests of all that's against having a good time at work. In particular, I hate the rat-faced female who fancies herself a painter and appears to be their leader. She cringes at every noise around her, unless it's made by her grating voice. There are few faces I've encountered upon which frustration is so plainly stamped: ghastly lines bisect her chin, cheeks, and forehead; her eyes have a resentful, splintering off in all directions, look in them at all times. She's in her early thirties but could easily pass for fifty. She likes to make "sssssss" noises each time she hears a vulgar word uttered and it's no idle threat. That "sssssss" can quickly become an email addressed to personnel. She's sent a couple complaining about my so-called foul mouth and I've been spoken to about it and have to watch my choice of words when she's nearby; and also has sent emails suggesting that myself and others cease engaging in rubber band wars, playing poker, and other "shenanigans," as she terms them; and she absolutely hates Linda. Why does Rat-Face hate Linda? For her beauty and good cheer, of course; and because Linda's tactful, well-spoken, and popular; and because Linda's a favorite of Mother Nature, while she -- Rat-Face -- is something all men of taste flee from. But when Linda's with me in my cube the Cutsie Club and what it stands for -- pretentiousness, frustration, pettiness, envy, living death -- dissolves from awareness and disappears!

Listen: in any workplace there are unhappy, depressed, stupid people whose only pleasure in life is killing the happiness of others, and seeking to have things run according to the dictates of their dismal personalities; so you've got to -- I repeat, got to! -- counterbalance their unhealthy influence by having sex under their noses at work as much as possible! This, I am proud to say, is one of my defining philosophies! And I'm definitely a happier and healthier man on account of it!

So what's Sweetie Pie doing now? She's slung both of her legs over my shoulders and is leaning back, savoring the movement of my tongue inside her. I admit it: we've ceased to factor much caution into the equation of our pleasure; from perhaps being overrash we've gone to definitely being overrash! Isn't it priceless when that happens? when sheer delight overrides concern for escaping detection and one finds oneself assuredly exposed to the risk of being caught having at a cutie's kitty at the office? My face is far too deep inside the embrace of Linda's thighs for me to keep an eye on the floor and watch for telltale approaching shadows. And Linda's head is flung way too far back within the walls of my cubicle for her to see either; that is, assuming her eyes are even open, which they aren't. For perhaps slightly under five minutes we brave this blind spot and take a gamble, placing our continued employment at the firm in the hands of chance.

Now, I don't mean to suggest that a feeling of uneasiness isn't with us; we're well aware of how vulnerable we are to detection: we're not so far gone that we've forgotten we're at work. What I'm saying is that delightful sensations have overcome us to the extent we're exposing ourselves to detection for the sake of indulging them; and, of course, this condition of being exposed to detection heightens our pleasure! We dare not remain so vulnerable for long, and yet -- God, I need to get in another forceful tongue-flutter! I want to wet my face for a few seconds longer! I want to feel Linda's inner tension shoving it's way down my throat and spreading throughout me! What a wonderful conjoinment of opposites: thrilling to Linda's energy as she hovers on the brink of release while also uneasy about being found out! Her eyes are still closed, she's breathing erratically -- oh, a few more moments -- a few more and I ought to be pushing her over! But, again, the perils of discovery! -- we've been vulnerable for far too long already -- certainly for longer than five minutes! Her eyes open and she's suddenly looking at me with alarm through eyes blurry-intense with arousal -- I almost think I hear a rustle of clothes nearby. I pull my head up; Linda's sweet nectar is on my lips and chin. She sits upright abruptly, believing danger is nigh. But it's nothing; no one's approaching…

But now we're going to play it safe, compel ourselves to be conscientious with regard to the preservation of our employment. Linda's going to remain sitting upright on the edge of my desk with her dress covering her thighs as I complete what I began, employing my fingers alone. We've already tempted fate enough and have, I fully admit it, succeeded in frightening ourselves: the firm is our means of making a living, after all! We need to guard against getting carried away to the point where we're willing to risk termination for the sake of a few more minutes of unbridled stimulation! So, while leaning close to her and as she embraces me, I slip two fingers inside Linda's warm wet lovebox again, alternate between shoving them deep and almost withdrawing. I'm our sentinel and my eyes are unwaveringly trained upon the floor at the entrance to my cubicle -- which by no means prevents me from savoring Linda's tense embrace as I caress her from the inside. She's pressing her mouth against my left ear; her sultry breath's tickling me with tingles; suddenly, she grasps me tighter and presses her mouth hard against my neck to muffle her moans as her body shudders -- and I'm laughing to think I've guided Linda towards another release while the clueless members of the Cutsie Club continue to, as they always do, jabber a lot of pretentious nonsense within earshot; and to suppose themselves hot on the trail of all rulebook-flaunting goings on in the office.

Yes, you silly failed artist would-be stompers out of all frolic at the firm, I address you directly: I've had so much fun right under your noses! I've muffdived and coated my lips with succulent pussy juice again and again while located only a few yards away! I've grabbed ass and shoved my face in tits and had my cock sucked! I've watched the faces of comely girls get radiant with the afterglow of consummation! I've had my neck sucked to redness below my shirt collar, where you can't see it! I've passed you in the hall, even spoken with you about a assignment, while seeming to float above the floor in a delightful post love daze! And I'll continue to do all of these things! And what I say to you boring, stupid, petty little nonentities is: Ha! Ha! Ha!

And what I say to you, Linda darling, is: I still miss you and, boy, did we ever have a lot of fun! And, when you return to town for a visit… Well, you know…

Click for Episodes: No. 1, No. 2, No. 3, No. 4, No. 5