The Misogynist (Republished)

Workaholic

TW - Knifeplay

-----------
Masturbating at your desk is not a good idea. That's what I tell myself as I sit at work in my comfy computer chair, and slip my hand underneath my skirt. The power is out in the office, so no one is working. The computers are all lifeless, and the light is dim, just a bit of sunlight filtering in from the small, shaded windows. My desk sits in a shadowy corner. Between the cubicle-style divider in front of me, and the large potted plant to one side of me, I am almost invisible. The CEO's office sits in the corner directly behind me, but in the few weeks I've been working at this company he's passed by my desk only a handful of times. I could probably have a whole string of orgasms back here, and no one would ever know.

Touching myself would be a really stupid thing to do though. I just got this job. I shouldn't do anything to jeopardize it. Just because the power is out, and I'm bored and horny, it doesn't mean I need to take the opportunity to rub one out right in the middle of the workplace. But it's been almost two months since I've had an orgasm, and I've been edging every single day. The desperate slut inside of me has become extremely insistent. She gives no fucks about potential consequences. The slut just wants action, wants to rub herself against every available stimulus like a cat in heat, and the idea of masturbating in a forbidden place really turns her on.

I look around the office, and verify that no one is anywhere nearby. Then I let my hand run up my thigh, parting the folds of my wrap-style skirt, exposing my favorite pair of panties, the white lace ones that somehow manage to look both sexy and demure. I rest the palm of my hand on my cloth-covered pussy, feeling its warmth. Then I close my eyes, and send my fingers to find the waistband of my panties. I take one more look around, and then I move my hand down, slipping it into my panties so that my fingers can find my clit.

I bite my lip to repress a moan as my fingers begin to rotate my clit in long, slow circles. I wriggle my hips, and spread my legs as wide as I can in the high-backed desk chair. I try to position my body so that most of what I'm doing is hidden under my desk. I move my fingers faster, and my head lolls back. My eyes slip closed, and I bite my lip harder, reminding myself not to make any noise. A part of me is horrified that I am actually doing this, playing with myself at work, right at my desk, but my inner slut is firmly in control at this point. The slut thinks that this is one of the best ideas I've ever had, and urges me to keep going, to come hard, right in public, right where any of my co-workers could see.

I can't hold back a little groan as I raise my hips, right on the verge of orgasm. Now might not be the best time to put an end to my two-month streak of orgasm denial, but I no longer have a choice. The terrifying thrill of this blatant sluttery has pushed me over the edge. I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the first spasms of orgasm, reminding myself over and over not to scream.

I hear the sound of a throat being cleared directly behind me. I didn't think there was anything that could stop the onrushing orgasm, but that sound does it. It's like someone just threw a bucket of ice water on me. The orgasm retreats, leaving my pussy wet and aching. My body then goes from feeling ice cold to way too hot. I wrench my hand out of my panties, readjust my skirt, and spin my chair around to face the unintentional voyeur. Of course, it's the CEO.

I try to think of something to say, but before I can even begin to form a coherent sentence, he says, "Step into my office, please." My body is numb, I stand up and follow him into his office. He shuts the door behind us, and when I hear the soft click of the latch, I realize how much trouble I'm in. He's going to fire me. He might even decide to press charges against me for public indecency or something. I'm never going to be able to get another job again.

"Have a seat," he says, and I stumble over to the leather chair positioned in front of his desk, collapsing into it. He takes his own seat behind the desk, and looks at me across the shining expanse of wood. I can't meet his eyes. I stare down out my hands, which are clasped together in my lap. The silence stretches out, but I don't break it. I have no idea what I could possibly say in my defense. "What exactly were you doing out there?" he asks.