However, I trust my employees to manage their own time, and it makes sense that they would center their work on my typical arrival time. It is out of character for me to be on time one day and early the next. There will probably be nervous apprehension around the office for weeks to come.
The smell of coffee begins to scent the office delicately. The darkness is brought to an abrupt halt as blinding neon lights flip on in the corner office directly across from mine. Fortunately, the entire floor is full of windows, and by the time everyone is here, gentle daylight overtakes the harsh, unnatural lighting.
The smell of coffee by now has become quite alluring, and I guess I could use the wake-up. I grab one of those cliché coffee cups with a Capricorn symbol on it. I am an Aries, but I tend to get along well with earth signs such as Capricorns and Tauruses. My office and homelife are full of people that carry their earth sign surprisingly well. I grabbed this particular cup because I love the petite yet sturdy handle. Finding that perfect coffee cup is similar to finding the perfect pair of jeans. It’s all about the comfort, size, and weight.
On the way to the coffee machine, I catch a quick look of myself in the reflection of my mirror-tinted office windows. Without being too obvious, I try to get a full body perspective. I look rather well—my hair not as tightly fastened as usual, loosely curled locks falling into place as if I have done it on purpose. My tightly fitted attire is complimenting and sleek. The dark-blue pantsuit, just a shade lighter than black, contrasts favorably with my ivory complexion. I catch a glimpse of my overworked and overtired face. It doesn’t matter, as I am sure that everything placed around it will serve as a distraction until I have had a cup or two of coffee. I make my way over to the other side of the office, pretending to ignore the furtive glances of my employees direct towards me as I pass.
To my delight, my desk has been cleaned, with nothing but a pile of finished projects stacked in the center. Reaching into my purse to grab my BlackBerry for an overview of today’s schedule, a scrap of paper falls out:
Mistress Fran Mongiello
Psychic & Paranormal Research
Its peculiar appearance twists my thoughts back to the abstract, and I remember the strange old woman handing me her card yesterday at the museum.
It looked like she had it made at Kinko’s, like any other weirdo with a big idea, but that doesn’t confirm or deny whether she’s a legit psychic. Noticing that the address below her title is one I’m familiar with, I’m struck with the urge to track her down. I am certain that a “normal” life is not exactly possible for someone like me. I am by nature overanalytical, as well as intrigued by the obscure, so my curiosity never allows me to walk away. You cannot turn something like that off. I can only ignore my impulses to search too far for everything. My life consists of multitasking, and I keep all of my priorities separate, organized by their importance and value. My interests are typically last on my inexhaustible schedule. Fragments of my dream and overwhelming curiosity have been sneaking past the defenses of my priorities, and I need to get a grip, so I flick the card towards the trash, but it misses and flutters under my desk. For a moment I wonder if I should consider keeping the card or aiming for the trash a second time. On the one hand, keeping card will lead me into another nonbusiness and nonfamily rabbit hole that I more than likely won’t have enough time to attempt.
Maybe my poor aim is a sign that I shouldn’t throw it away. I suppose that I might someday need to vent to a crazy old woman who thinks she knows me. I laugh quietly to myself. If we spoke, no one would ever know, and I am sure that nobody would take her seriously if she revealed anything discussed. Figuring out how to surmount bizarre frustrations through a stranger that seems to ride the crazy train to a place of beautiful art during her final years could be a tempting conversation too. More than this, I’m just intrigued by our exchange at the museum. I’m curious why she—or anyone, really—would approach me on a day I was out looking for an answer, rather than seeking an escape. When I took the card, I had no real intentions of calling her. I saved the card to capture the moment—the way a pack rat clings to otherwise meaningless objects to physically collect a memory. It was a strange moment in my world when this seemingly crazy old woman was bold enough to invade my space and make me remember her by way of force. Not that I profess to be completely sane either. At times I believe that the only thing that makes it possible for me to omit the potential that I am completely insane is the fact that I’m still accountable enough to question my sanity. I’d also try to consider believing someone if they had the balls to tell me when I’m acting crazy. I suppose that I also have some tactics to suppress or hide certain nutty aspects of myself. For instance, my eccentricity is well disguised behind my business face; my sexual appetite is controlled in the name of monogamy, and I prioritize my family over my esoteric interests. Without this trinity of self-employed strategy, I’d probably seem as mad as the old lady at the museum. Though while under my subjective scope, her craziness is certainly more obvious than mine.
As expected, the office chaos has been building up to its pace since I’ve been sitting here contemplating my private agenda and Mistress Fran. Getting some composure before I address my office will be necessary. Sucking in any outward evidence of the questions swirling in my mind, I walk into the open floor space. The thirteenth story office building that I own and all of my obedient employees are awaiting my direction.
A hearty, motivational, and one-sided discussion ensues, which leaves me feeling inexplicably drained. I want nothing more than to be a recluse in my office.
IX
Workplace Erotica
I hide in my fissure of an office. Hot caffeine surges through my body, creating more of a jittery than an awake effect, and gives me a sudden rush of false energy. Looking at my employees slyly, with my face against the inside of my tinted office windows, I watch them all get to work, but they cannot see me through the mirror tint.
Thinking about my saturated thighs and Bruce’s muscular legs this morning, offers my nymphomaniac tendencies a relaxation from my jitteriness. I didn’t make time for my typical morning “rumination experience.” I regret this because I need to feel attached to my organic body more than ever right now. Besides, I was not satisfied with my orgasm earlier. With the dream still fresh in my mind, it may have been impossible, but parts of the dream and the way I remember waking soaked in my cum arouses me to the point of sexual aggravation. Not the dream per se, but the anxiety caused by it. I become a chronic masturbator when I have no other release for my anxiety. I probably rubbed myself on his thigh the entire night unknowingly, before I had my way with him in quickness to scratch an itch. Some orgasms are simply better than others. When my mind and body find themselves in the same place, my orgasms are paralyzing. Nobody with any sense will bother knocking on my office door this early, so I unbutton my pants and slide them down, exposing my upper thighs.
As I move my panties slightly to the side of my neatly shaven lips, I lick two fingers to smooth their roughness before I place them on the top of my jewel. I move them in a repetitious circular motion with just enough pressure to stimulate, but not enough to come. I imagine the secret mystery man in my dreams, the way his touch alone masterfully paralyzed me, and Bruce’s hard body lying between my thighs when I awoke. How incredibly small I felt when lying beside Bruce’s bulk and how magically inferior I felt towards this man in my lucid dream. Never before had I thought of two men at once, but the cliché line, “I have never done this,” remains in my mind.
I enjoy Kama Sutra. As I work into my orgasm thinking of these things. Moaning silently, I flex and retract tightly against the leather office chair. It is a little discomforting without the freedom of my thighs spreading into their full capable straddle position with my pants not being completely off, so I struggle to pull my pants down to my knees. My hips rotate in a circular motion the way us little girls use to clit fuck in our teen years. Hmmm, I moan to myself imagining Bruce and I the first time we broke in the thirteenth floor of my office building, in this very chair. His solid body against mine and his muscular hands gripping each thigh and spreading them above the chair arms as he licked around my thighs and muffled his moans as he