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Good God! He must have seen my picture and recognized my body… or that small the sliver of my face.
But who? I stared toward the tall stacks of file, the boxes, the cabinets, the wall between me and the outside world, the world of the advertising firm and its network of fasting talking executives and efficient secretaries, running self-importantly with files locked under their arms or in clutched front of them as if they needed protection.
Was this blackmail? My first shocked thoughts went naturally down that slippery slope.
I raised my head, hit “reply” and sent off the question.
Are you blackmailing me?
Ten minutes later, ten minutes of sweating, stewing, and crazed waiting passed.
[email protected] replied…
No. No blackmail. You want this master, the offer stands. You don’t, then keep your private activities to private time outside this office.
He had clout it would seem. But apparently, I interested him, which made me interested in return.
Who are you? was my next message, to which I received the prompt response…
An admirer of your physicality, your sexuality, and now, it seems, your sexual tastes. You have my email, no need to reply until you’re certain what you want. What’s said between us remains private, forever.
No! I couldn’t let the offer rest just yet.
Am I going to know who you are? I typed right back.
Maybe in time. That’s for me to decide.
You’re not the kid in the mailroom, are you?
No, and I’m not the computer techie you’ve been fucking at lunch. (I could hear the sarcastic frustration teaming from his dispassionate reply) Enough with the questions, don’t reply until you can give me a firm answer, yes or no.
I paused the panic button for several minutes, closed out
of Hotmail—someone was approaching my desk. For nearly two hours, I went about company business because that’s what I had to do. A sudden glut of research projects landed on my desk and my focus changed. Even so, residing side by side with my efficient and productive use of company time was a burning in my belly that seemed to swell it far beyond the boundaries of my body. Hysteria. Arousal. Sex. Panic. Reckless anxiety.
What would I do?
The day wore on, sometimes speeding by in a frenzy. I was glad that I was working; it kept my mind off other things. Sometimes the minutes ticked by slowly, like molasses falling unhurriedly from a jar. Every dull website I searched reminded me of the rage and the wildness inside. Finally, at five o’clock I hastily typed an answer, the only thing I could think of to say…
What would you have me do?
Ten minutes later:
If you’re wearing panties, take them off now and sit with your bare ass on your chair. Leave the panties in your top desk drawer… the one you WON’T lock tonight. If you’re wearing pantyhose, cut out the crotch so at the very least your pussy is naked.
For the future, don’t wear panties or pantyhose again. Buy a garterbelt and stockings if you have to. And obviously, no jeans, no pants of any kind. Take care of these things for now, and I’ll write more later.
Later, when? I’m about to leave for the day! I pounded the keys impatiently.
You’ll stay until six. So, do as I say. You want to argue or specify, let’s quit now before you completely disappoint me.
A day of speculation, anxiety and the raging hothouse of my crotch put me in another panic with this comment. I gulped. My lips were parched and my crotch ached. I couldn’t stop now.
No, no no! I typed right back. I want this. Yes. I really do.
After rifling off the message with lightning speed, I looked around for voyeurs, and finding none, I fished under the desk, under my skirt for my panties. It was a warm day, just the beginning of summer; so thankfully, I wore no hose. Before I could get the panties down, however, my email account pinged again.
Good. Was his reply. Now that’s a decent answer. Feeling the steady deliberateness of his reply, I breathed relieved. Yes, he was giving me exactly what I asked for… I think… strong, patient, creative, determined… as in my ad. Now calm yourself and do as I say. Do it carefully, thinking of me.
