Office Noir

I'm not particularly smart, or careful. I just assume everyone is an asshole, pointlessly mean, stupid, or trying to put one over on me. Hence few events surprise me. I've found that this set of assumptions is a tremendous advantage in dealing with people.

I walked into Ellen's cubicle to tell her that Herb wanted to see her. She was at her computer typing. She had tattoos of flowered vines encircling her upper wrists. I looked at how the tattoos moved as her fingers tapped the keyboard. Cool.

I told her that Herb wanted to speak to her. I didn't know what that fatuous boob wanted with her, but she seemed shaken by my message, and she quickly closed up the windows on her computer. I shrugged to myself and walked back to my cubicle. I was about to start working again on the Mego account when a reckless impulse hit me. What had rattled Ellen so much? I walked back to her cubicle.

It was Friday afternoon, and a bunch of people had left already for one reason or another. She had only minimized one of the windows. I looked toward the entrance of her cubicle and opened the window.

I recognized the format of the website. It was from a ‘blog' group I've run across on the net. Her ‘name' was "SOworthless." I minimized the window again and went back to my cubicle.

I drummed my fingers and pondered the situation. I didn't want evidence of my visiting the site on the local server. Okay, I'm an adult. I'll wait.

I saw Ellen dragging ass back to her cubicle a little later. I finished some work. Mostly, I was trying to figure out a great way to sell this new comic action figure we're supposed to be marketing. I was getting nowhere, and Friday Fever hit me hard. Time to go home. Ellen looked like she didn't want to talk, so I obliged her and didn't say goodbye.

I'm tired of the El. It takes forever and doesn't even get me right to my doorstep. I know that creepy bastard is going to puke on me, or some wino will start to address the whole train with his hard luck story. I sometimes look at the women sitting across the aisle from me and wonder what kind of panties they're wearing. I want to smile at them, but everyone on the El adopts the ability to glance at everybody while making eye contact with nobody. At Paulina, I got off of the train and had to walk the 4 blocks home. I skipped going to the "y" at Lincoln and School Street. I'm tired of the vinnies ("eh, Vinnie! How ya doin'?") asking me about my cock piercing. I need a new health club membership.

I also kept wondering what Ellen was covering up, and why she was so shaken by simply having to meet with our dippy supervisor (who was much too apprehensive to issue any kind of reprimand).

After my usual evening routine (workout, shower, food, Simpsons, Seinfeld), I looked up "SOworthless" on the "My Own Private Weblog" site. I remember I found the site after Googling "My Own Private Idaho," a movie I really liked. I enjoyed the blog site also, and had kept it among my bookmarks.

Her journal name was apt. Ellen's life is clearly a mid-air plane collision in achingly slow motion. Family troubles, an ex that she can't get off of her mind, probation status at work (that must have been the subject of her meeting with Herb). She obviously hated who she was and what she did. She questions her own judgment throughout the journal, rethinking decisions made at seemingly every junction in her life.

All of this is quite interesting to read about. The urge that made me keep reading is probably similar to the one that compels us all to stare at car accidents, laugh at waiters when they drop a tray of glasses, and feel cozy and content when we watch other people trudging up the street in the rain. Schadenfreude.

By far the most interesting element of this journal, though, was its sexual side. Ellen has some VERY interesting ideas about sex and about who should be glancing at her body, and what they should be doing to that body. Her sexual submissiveness is a theme she touches on in nearly every entry. She refers often to how uncomfortable she is with this side of her, and often muses about her shame at various acts that she's performed clandestinely. If I didn't already know her, I'd say that they were lies she was posting to be funny. But she is a sad, sad woman.

Then, there are the pictures. She has been posting about once per week for a few months. Her shame somehow ends once she gets in front of the camera. This week's assortment includes one of her opening her pussy with her fingers, while her wrists are shackled; she samples the juice on her fingers in another one (still handcuffed); she turns her ass to the camera and places her cuffed wrists between her knees; finally there was a close up as she sucks on a really large, red dildo.

She was wearing a black lycra hood in every pic, which had holes for her eyes and mouth. This was fairly smart of her. The thing is, she could still be easily identified. The pretty tattoos on her upper wrists were a clear giveaway. The close up was also an identifier. She has a faint hair lip that one can't see unless you look very closely. The flash made it fairly obvious as her mouth stretched around that monstrous cock. Finally there is her long, curly, blondish hair, which stuck out from under the hood.

The pictures were supremely filthy. She has a cute, though chubby body. In the pictures she wore lingerie that flattered her generous breasts and big, round ass, while de-emphasizing her belly. In these pictures she wore a black pushup bra with a wide, old-fashioned garter belt, that made her waist look surprisingly sexy. This amazed me because at work she dresses in a stolid, doughty way. She wears a lot of unappealing tweeds and unflattering pant suits, as if she was trying to accentuate what's less attractive about her body. Her huge eyeglass frames contributed to an overall impression that she was a withdrawn, nerdish drip.

The tension of seeing all this insight into Ellen's x-rated side finally got to me. I quickly grabbed my cock and rubbed it while looking at these pictures. I came in a few minutes, less than usual. I prefer to work myself up for a while. This time, however, I had many things to do, and I couldn't be distracted by my nagging libido.

After I came, I cleaned up and got to work. I saved every along with a log of when the pic was posted. I then saved each written entry. I noticed that quite a few of them were complaints and insulting remarks about Herb and Herb's supervisor Terrylee. This was interesting information to be pondered later.

Over a solitary dinner, I ruminated over this situation, and planned every move. This will only work out well if I make no mistakes. In fact, if I do slip up, I can find myself out of a job.

On Monday I slipped an envelope into Ellen's mailbox. I didn't want to place it on her desk. She would immediately suspect someone who had a desk nearby. The key to keeping this cat and mouse game going was to keep the mouse as far away from her pursuer as possible. I was hoping I could get a look at her as she read it, but I knew that lust-fueled greed will ruin this little opportunity that's been thrown into my lap.

This is what the envelope contained: The first page had the picture of her opening her pussy wide for the perverse world to see. The second picture was a candid from the last company picnic, which was posted on the company website. In bold, red pen, I circled the tattoos on her wrists that appeared in both pictures.

The second page contained one of her rants about Terrylee, to whom she carelessly alluded by name (She had prudently referred to Herb as "B"). At one point, she described Terrylee as a "fat, uptight, ignorant , celibate." The entry was filled with fairly detailed information that would have made it clear to a knowing reader that she was referring to Terrylee Sledge of Brach, Brach, and Stanley, Inc. I highlighted that last line in the same red pen I used on the first page. Underneath it, I typed "I doubt that Ms. Sledge would agree with, and appreciate this opinion. If you agree, take this note to the statue in front of the building and hold it over your head at 12:00 today, 10-1-04. Wave it five times in rapid succession."

At 11:55 I heard some activity coming from Ellen's cubicle. I didn't look up, knowing that I may betray myself with a knowing look. I kept looking at my humble flat screen, turning my silly idea for that dumb doll we're selling into a real marketing concept. At two minutes to 12, I got my coffee cup and walked to the window. I glanced down to the statue of Goethe that's across the street. There was Ellen. Today she wore a magenta pantsuit, which made it very easy to spot her. The only thing I like about the outfit was that when she took off the suit jacket, the pants framed her wide ass nicely. There were people waiting for the bus by the statue. I stood back from the window about a foot and watched as she obediently waited for her watch to read midday. At 12:00 sharp she waived the sheets above her head five times. People looked at her quizzically. She remained standing there for a minute or so, and then did it again. I smiled to myself.

I ate my lunch while working on the Mego project. I heard Ellen sigh and sit heavily into her chair. I called to her, "Ellen, could you come here a second?"

She walked over and said, "hmmm?" Her voice seemed relatively upbeat and unburdened.

I stared at the screen and said, "I think I have the budget completed for the Mego people. Would you mind taking a look at it? I want to make sure I didn't forget anything."

"Sure, be glad to." I thanked her, printed it up and handed it to her. I watched her ass as she walked back to her cubicle. I saw that sexy panty line and that gave me a new idea. I quickly wrote up her instructions, hoping that she would get them before our 2:00 pm meeting. After confirming with Ellen that my budget was complete, I had to present it to Herb prior to the ‘big' meeting. I took all of the papers and went down to his office (which is around the corner from the mailboxes). I dropped off the note and then stopped in Herb's office.

He had a few minor quibbles about the budget, but he agreed with the marketing concept. He's a tedious person, capable only of predictable conversation. After the usual, obligatory chatter, I picked up one of the inside-line phones stationed around our office complex. I rang the direct line for Ellen's voice mail. I had decided before on a way of disguising my voice that she'd have trouble figuring out. It's kind of a cross between Dr. John's gravelly singing voice and Kevin Spacey's "John Doe" voice in the movie Seven. I said simply, "check your mailbox. NOW." There is a time and voice stamp on every message, so she would know when I left it.

I went to 1004, where our meetings usually take place. I began to set up my Power Point presentation. I wasn't thinking too much about Ellen's note. It told her to go to the bathroom and take off her panties. She was to have them in her pocket during the meeting. At some point during the meeting, she was to leave them in the recycling basket in that room.

At two, I began my presentation to the team, and, most importantly, to Terrylee. I outlined the proposal and the budget. I gave credit where it was due, thanking Herb and Ellen for their help. It went very well, and Terrylee brusquely told us to "go ahead and make it happen." She got up and left with hardly another word. This is typical of her dialogue with her subordinates.

The meeting room emptied and I collected my laptop, the projector, and my papers. I saw Ellen loitering around the door, obviously trying to see who would take her panties out of the recycling basket. As I walked out (not even glancing at the recycling basket), she started to enter the room, saying in her awkward, halting manner, "I think I left some papers in here."

I smiled at her as I walked out, saying "thanks again for your help, Ellen" I returned to my desk and began the next step in getting our marketing plan moving. I typed some memos to the ad people, and one to accounting to tell them which fund to use for the Mego work. At 4:00, I saw Ellen going to one of her daily meetings with Herb.

After she left the room I went to 1004 and retrieved her panties. They were magenta, lacey, from Avenue. The crotch was wet, sopping really. That surprised me somewhat. I went to her chair and noticed a tiny damp patch. The patch had obviously been a bit larger, but had dried somewhat. My dirty-minded little fly was enjoying this game. Tonight, I'm going to tug on her wings a bit more.

I thought better of contacting her again as I took the train home. I wanted to see if she'd change her settings on her weblog. It was my assumption that she'd put up privacy barriers or maybe even delete the whole journal. This was the reason I saved all of her entries before I began playing with her. I looked at the entries I had saved as well as the pictures and became uncontrollably aroused. I now knew what her pretty pussy scent was like. Best of all, she did exactly as I told her. My arousal at being so intimate with her became too much for me. As I spurted my cum, I imagined shooting it on her gagged face.

I checked her site and there was no visible difference in the journal itself. Maybe she figured there was no point in changing her privacy settings, since I obviously already accessed all of her information. All she wrote for the day's entry was "Unexpected developments…" The difficult question was how would I contact her when we're not at work, while minimizing my exposure?

I did a little research on the net and found that it was now possible to get a small piece of technology that can disguise my voice. A little more research indicated that a "Spy Store" on the northwest side actually stocked the thing. I drove out to the place and found a wealth of goods that would make this little adventure even more fun and less risky. I found the voice changer, but also a way to clandestinely record phone conversations and a clandestine video camera (with sound). I bought it all with cash and continued my evil plan.

Part II

Ellen:

I promise there will be an end to this little game. I, however, will decide when that end has come. I was just looking at your September 2nd post about Terrylee. You remember, don't you? It's the one in which you write that you'd like to piss on her face because she didn't trust you to properly review the marketing contract for Hazelwood Foods? The next day you posted a mysterious picture of you pissing on what you said was her business card. You posted one picture that was a close up of the urine-soaked card. Her name was blurred out, along with the name of her company. Attached to this note is the picture; stapled to it, is one of her cards. Even with the blurred names, it's clearly the same card you soiled. Remember what you said at the end of the post? "If I have no other wish fulfilled, I pray that I can hold her at the end of a leash while I piss on her smug face."

Can you imagine what Terrylee would say to you if she were to see that post? You'd have to stand before her in her office, while she looked at the pictures, the cards, and your ‘unfulfilled wish' all spelled out in black and white. Can you imagine trying to explain it to her, of all people? How many human resource managers and head hunters do you think a 52 year old Senior Vice President knows by now? Where would you work if SHE knew the way you wanted to treat her, and that you broadcasted your obscene, pseudo-lesbian, S/M inspired wishes to the whole world?

Tonight I will call you. At exactly 10:00 pm, you'll receive a blocked phone call. Have a video camera set up and running. Have that huge dildo handy. Put on your garter belt, panties, and heals. Wear absolutely nothing else except your glasses. I suggest you do as you're told. Your arrogant hubris has a price, Ellen. Tonight, you will pay an installment on that price.

Part III

Let me tell you a few things about Terrylee Arquette Sledge. She has almost perfectly straight blonde hair, with high cheekbones, and dainty facial features. She has a plump body, and wears clothes that are so exquisite and perfectly tailored that it only makes her appear more powerful, intimidating and dangerous. Each day she wears one piece of jewelry that is of obvious and substantial value. Every time she glances at someone, she sizes the person up with the cold calculation of a frequent barroom brawler.

She grew up in Tennessee, graduated with Distinction in Accounting from Vanderbilt University and then earned a combined J.D. and MBA from the University of Chicago. Despite her southern roots, she stayed in Chicago, where she began a rapid, ruthless rise to upper management. Along the way she married another transplanted southerner who was a neurosurgeon. After giving birth to an obligatory child (a son), she returned to work and continued exercising her considerable authority.

Terrylee was active in professional associations in both the business and legal worlds. She had a pet fascination with politics and indulged it by joining (and chairing) a number of conservative civic organizations. She gave generously to the campaigns of like-minded candidates and even delivered a keynote address at a $1,500 per plate fundraising dinner for one favorite. The oft-quoted remark from that speech was, "as long as the weak succumb to their deviance, our group of decent, moral Americans will be a vital source of this great nation's strength." This quote was etched onto a plaque that she received from the sponsoring organization. The plaque hangs upon the wall behind her desk.

Part IV

She answered the phone with a subdued, nervous voice. I used my cell phone, equipped with the voice-disguising unit and tape recorder. I said to her, "Where are you right now?"

"My bedroom." She paused, "On the floor next to my bed…looking at my video camera. It's running."

"Do you have a cordless phone?"

"Yes"

"Pick up the camera and give me a tour of your room."

After a minute of fussing with the camera, she said "Okay, I'm panning around the room. There's the bed, the closet, the dresser, and my computer."

"Where do you keep your sex toys?"

"Um, my bedside table. "

"Go to the table and inventory them on your bed. Tell me about each one as you take it out of the bedside table. Be sure that the camera can see each one."

"Jesus…okay." She laughed nervously. "My big red, um, dil—you know. You know about that one. I have two others, one blue and smaller, and a black, silicone one that's, well, a little bigger. I haven't really used that one. It's too big. One set of beads. You know, probably. I mean, you know that they're anal ones. There's a small, white vibrator. I got it at Spencer's a long time ago. I bought a remote control vibrator a long time ago, but have never used it. It's egg-shaped. Um, I have some handcuffs, a leather blindfold, and a red ball gag. I think that's it. There are a few others around, but these are the ones I, um, have the most interest in."

"Place the camera back on the tripod. Sit in front of it.

"Okay, here I am. "

"Ellen, move your panties aside and show your pussy to the camera. Open it wide, like you do in all of your posts online. You like showing off your pussy, don't you?"

She paused, "Yes." Her breathing became audible.

"Finger it, show it to the camera as if I'm looking at you, as if I want to fuck you. Open the lips wide, show me the clit you need licked."

She whispered, "Yes, okay." I could hear her breathing quicken and that she was rushing quickly toward orgasm. Oh no, honey. We have a long way to go.

"Stop," I said. She groaned in exasperated, frustrated lust.

"Isn't this what you want?" she asked, almost hurt.