Extreme Office Fantasizing
White Collar Crime
Celia Summers languished at her desk, looking through another tall pile of claims. Her business: fire insurance. In the sweltering, mid-august heat, fires bloomed across the quiet suburbs of Richmond, Virginia. Whether it was a child gone rogue with the matches, or a child with fireworks, or a child with a propane gas tank- there was always a little rascal starting those fires. But after the third claim on Littleton Ave, she knew something was different about these fires. The deeds were all in one name, Jack "Cracker Jack" Hall. He was a tall and handsome man, or so it said on her insurance claims filings.
She often fantasized even as a young girl about being taken away by a rough and muscular bandit. It was an idea born no doubt of the old square television she had watched as a child, the blue light flickering wild images as she sat alone in the dark. She spent so much time alone, she had developed a furtive imagination that transported her from her small and confined existence then just as it brought her from her cubicle now and into the arms of a handsome and fierce man.
She dreamed of this stranger- this handsome Jack Hall. She knew that he was older and experienced, with crow's feet in the corners of the eyes and hardened features from a life of crime and arson. Her hand slipped down to settle between her legs as she let her thoughts run wild- thoughts of being swept from smoldering wreckage by the very man that set fire to her heart. She wanted his eyes to burn her with the intensity of his lust, and the heat of friction as two bodies in motion stay in motion. Her legs shook slightly as she shot glances around the office- stained with a blue tint from the piercing fluorescent lights. She felt that she were under the bright lights of an interrogation- not knowing that she would soon find herself in just that precarious position, deep in conspiracy with white-collar millionaire criminal Jack "Cracker Jack" Hall.
She was under the spell of a man she had never met. He would be the kind of man that would make her feel really good. He would appreciate the subtle curves of her body.
Unable to stand it any longer, she ran to the washroom to finish herself off from the terrible excitement of her contemplations. Slamming the stall door behind her, she plunged her hand into her 'good-girl' panties. She had enough of playing by the rules, and half of her wanted to get caught in here just to cut short the monotony of her aimless career. She groped her soft flesh and thought how it was sorely wasted closeted as it was in that cubicle. She wanted to be noticed, to be desired by men that were not afraid to make her feel like a woman. Men that broke all the rules. She caressed the lips of her soft flower, lost in feverish concentration on the building pressure that begged for release. But she knew she wouldn't get there herself, and that she would need the careless desire of a bad boy to push her to that edge and throw her off of it.
But before she had entirely let go of the moment, Celia unlatched the stall door and let it fall open slightly. She heard footsteps as her coworkers meandered around the office, and the thought that anyone might walk in and find her in this compromising position was proof enough that maybe she wasn't such a good girl after all.
She drew up her legs a little further and pushed her sopping panties back up, then reached for her skirt and pulled it up and over her hips. It didn't make any difference. Her skirt was wet, her panties stained, and now that she was here in the tiled bathroom, the friction between her legs had convinced her she was ready for more.
Still, what could she do? She couldn't give in to her desires. If someone was to walk in... then she'd just have to act like a normal person and come clean about it.
She had her index finger oscillating over her clitoris, and her middle and ring fingers dug gently into her desperate and wet vagina. Suddenly, a loud ambient hum became sharply audible as the door to the bathroom opened and someone walked in. Celia jumped back into her stall, but not fast enough. She caught a glimpse of a young woman's face, with two blond curtains draped over her thin and sloping shoulders. Surprised at the intrusion, she was startled from her reverie. She was mortified, but her hand stayed where it was. The fingers seemed to have a mind of their own, because even in her embarrassment those fingers were determined in their pursuit of swift fulfillment.
A light tap on the stall startled her and her heart skipped a beat.
The orgasm hit her so hard that it threw her backwards into the bowl. Straightening up, she felt helpless to circumstance; wanting to get away, but to no avail. She pulled up her panties and hastily buttoned her trendy corduroy skirt. She couldn't stand it any longer, she had to push herself out of the stall.
And just as she started walking out of the washroom, she heard a voice say, "Celia, is that you?"
She almost didn't hear it, so deafening was the pounding of her heart in her ears.
"Yes Alice, I spilled some rubbing alcohol on my skirt." Celia had no idea why she was lying, but she felt like a little schoolgirl about to be reprimanded by the principal.
"Celia," Alice began in a sing-song voice, "I know exactly what you've been doing in there."
Celia stepped out of the stall, and Alice looked her up and down. Her hair was tousled, her knees were buckled, and her lips were in a pout. She was looking at the ground, hoping Alice wouldn't press her advantage.
"Celia, why don't you tell me what's really going on." She wasn't Celia's boss. They didn't even work in the same department. But something about her commanding tone made Celia feel compelled to reply, albeit nervously.
"I already told you, I - "
But Alice covered the distance between them in a single stride, and had her finger pressed against Celia's lips as she gently pinned her against the door.
"Don't say anything" Alice spat in her ear. "I know the truth. I saw you running off here and I knew you were worked up. Everyone here knows it, because you don't even notice when your hand slips between these legs." She grabbed Celia's upper thigh sharply. "You're in big trouble- and all because you can't control yourself when you get worked up." She paused dramatically. "My suggestion- get in the bathroom stall first before you start acting like a little hussy"
Celia let out an audible gasp in shock, noticing how the heat flooded her cheeks. She couldn't believe this was happening. She hadn't known Alice well, but they had always been friendly enough. She was furious at being spoken to like this, but knew that there was nothing to be done about it. Not only that, but her deep shame at being treated like a naughty little schoolgirl was getting her wet all over again. She could feel her panties getting wetter and wetter.
"What's wrong with you?" Alice asked, glaring at Celia. "You're just like the rest of them. You're a fucking slut!"
Celia's heart began to race. She was trapped. She couldn't get away. She couldn't quell her violent arousal. She wanted to feel Alice standing over her, but Alice turned away.
"It's not like I want to be a slut," she replied. "I'm just... I'm a little confused, that's all."
"Confused?" Alice snorted. "Confused about what?"
"I-I..." Celia stammered, unable to think of anything to say. She could feel her body responding to Alice's words, the heat spreading from her pussy up to her face.
"What the hell?" Alice yelled at her. "You want to be a slut? You want to be a whore?"
"I-I don't know," Celia stammered, looking toward the door. "I'm not sure."
Alice gave her a stern look. "Well, I do," she said. "I don't want you to be a slut, you hear me?"
"I-I know," Celia replied, her voice trembling. "I know." Alice was walking away. "Alice?"
Celia reached out a hand and grabbed Alice by the arm, turning her on the spot. She stumbled forward and found herself kissing Alice full on the lips. Alice grabbed Celia by her long hair and forcefully pushed her against the wall, reaching carelessly to feel between her legs.
This story was inspired by a fable my grandmother used to tell us on Christmas day. RIP my grandma Lucile.