The House of Elyot

Office Sex

Posted on: April 19, 2016

Ta-daa! Here is the opening section of my Misbehaviour story, Office Sex.

‘Why, when the time accurate to a millisecond ticks away on the screen before me, do I still find myself watching the clock?  Something about the stiff vibration of the minute hand compels my eyes, or maybe it’s the effect of years spent at school in the same pursuit.  Is it habit, or do I prefer the clock to the screen?

 

Who cares anyway?  Usually he has been into the office by now.  This is the latest he’s left it by a good ten minutes, and I’m beginning to feel antsy.  I keep clicking the screen, refreshing it for no good reason, so it looks as if I’m doing something productive, but really I’m wondering whether I could phone or email him on some pathetic pretext, just to make sure he’s in the building.

 

But then, that would make him think I care, and I don’t want him to think that.  I don’t want him to realise that this daily ration of furtive eye-contact and quasi-accidental touching is at all important to me, because then it would probably stop, and I’d have to think about getting a life.  Or a ‘normal’ boyfriend.

 

I chuckle under my breath at the concept of ‘normal’ and tip my half-cup of paperclips on to the desk.  Time for some Clip Art.  I link them together to make two rough stick-figure shapes and flatten them out on the veneered wood.  What shall it be today?  Doggy style perhaps.  Paperclip figure 1 bends gracefully, clinky metal arms hanging down, while Paperclip figure 2 (extra clip for height) stands behind.  I think his arms can cross in a diagonal, so that they rest on figure 1’s back.  Ah, primitive but surprisingly pretty to look at.  I try to cross my legs, which is hard work in the progressively shorter and tighter skirts I have favouring lately.  Before the left and right limb can cross, there is a low rumble in my ear which makes me leap off my chair, sending it skittering on its castors across the office.

 

It is him, clearing his throat behind me.  The bastard has come in through the fire escape door at the back of the office.

 

He has a hand lightly on my back, preventing my impulse to flee to the Ladies’ and beyond from taking effect.

 

“If that isn’t flagrant misuse of company property, I don’t know what is,” he says, his voice perfectly mingling amusement and disapproval in that uniquely come-hither-but-only-if-you-can-handle-it way.

 

I just glance at him from under radically lowered eyelashes and curl a bit of lip.  Should I apologise or flirt?  I’m not sure, so I wait for his next signal.  The other four desk jockeys in my bank of workstations are trying their best not to blatantly rubberneck, but I know what the coffee-boat conversation will be today.

 

At that very moment, my bloody screensaver chooses to make its appearance; usually I can hastily return it to the default setting whenever anyone important crosses the threshold, but the boss’s sneaky entrance has thrown me into confusion.  ‘MR MORRELL IS HOTTER THAN HELL’ ambles across the screen, in no hurry to pass by and spare my blushes.  Childish, I know, but I’ve only been here three weeks and nothing wittier has occurred to me yet.

 

I shut my eyes and await my P45.

 

Instead, I am told that the stationery cupboard needs reorganising, and I seem to be just the person for the job.’

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