Once, Monica worked as an office aide. It was a mindless, paper-pushing job that bored her to tears. Her boredom was made even worse by the fact that her supervisor had relegated her to a lonely little cubicle in a back corner wing of the office. Her cubicle was located across the hall from the out-of-order toilets and shared a wall only with the ‘copy room,’ which was just another glorified cubicle that housed the copier, fax machine and printers.
This shitty cubicle assignment had been Monica’s punishment after she’d coldly rebuffed her supervisor’s repeated attempts to come on to her. His harmless flirtations had escalated to a simple dinner invitation. But Monica had so eviscerated him at every pass that the dinner invitation had been offered with an air of repressed animosity, thrown down like a gauntlet in a last-ditch effort to salvage his pride as a man. Even sensing this, and the trap that lay in wait for her should she refuse, Monica had been no less severe in the categorical no that she had given him.
The truth was that Monica couldn’t help herself. She had nothing against her supervisor. She even rather liked him, and she could certainly understand his frustration toward her. Despite her voluptuous appearance, her borderline revealing clothes, and the general aura of seductiveness that seemed to ooze from her every pore, Monica ruthlessly rejected any man who approached her directly, simply because she enjoyed doing so.
It amused her to be a contradiction, to play the ice queen while an inferno of palpable lust lay simmering just beneath the surface.
Of course, there was a price to be paid for this sort of coquetry. Her purgatorial cubical assignment was her supervisor’s thinly-veiled effort to force her out—or to put out. Because the quality of her work was impeccable, he had no grounds to terminate her. So he’d sentenced her to social exile instead, and it was near-total. Because of her vixen’s allure, the other women at the office gladly shunned her. Because of her brutal coldness, the men, too, were inclined to give her a wide berth. And so she had no visitors to speak of in her remote little corner—or spectators, rather.
Because it wasn’t the office small talk that Monica missed, but the sport of being out on the company floor. There were ample opportunities out there for her to derive little thrills—glances down the unbuttoned neckline of her shirt, beneath the upraised hem of her skirt as she bent over, pantyless. At her desk, she’d make a small sordid spectacle out of eating a banana with slow suggestive savor, or nibbling at the spongy pink erasure head of pencil. She might show a flash of garter here, a slip of nipple there. Enticing glimpses that got her every bit as hot and bothered as her male coworkers.
Trailing a bit of pussy gloss on the faux leather of her seat, she’d get up to go to the ladies’ room, where she’d bring herself off to the thought of some passerby doing a double-take of that telling shine she’d left behind. After she’d fingered herself to completion in the bathroom stall, she would wash her slick fingers off next to some ignorant other woman whose sour glances toward her were directed anywhere but there. Still, the risk of getting caught wet-handed had made these forays all the more exciting to her.
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Original Publication Date: 2/28/24
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Office Glory © CS Dark Fantasy