The Cubicle Ch. 01

Author's note: This is a slowly developing story, but for a purpose. Please enjoy!

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Working in human resources can be a real bore. But there are days when it can get interesting.

Usually, it's the constant and tedious stream of forms, numbers, phone calls and petty complaints from employees about bosses and correspondingly petty complaints from bosses about employees.

My corner cubical near the door of the HR director's office is drab enough to match the job. I never have been able to decide exactly the color of the rough cloth material that covers its walls. The quietly humming fluorescent lights overhead give them a hint of something that seems beige. But who can tell?

Over the three years I've spent in my dreary little cube, I've tried to brighten it up with a vase of silk flowers (I don't have to remember to water those); family pictures thumbtacked in cheery arrangements (Mom and Dad live four hours away by car, and my younger brother's home is the Army); a picture of me and the other bridesmaids at my best friend's wedding a year and a half ago; and a motley assortment of other typical funny little doodads a person collects and display in a cubicle in her vain effort to make homier.

As assistant HR director, I am part of a 12-person department for a large firm that specializes in financial law. There are about 300 lawyers, paralegals, administrative assistants and interns distributed across four floors of our building, which we share with insurance offices, a few medical practices and a wonderful Asian restaurant on the street level.

After my requisite eight hours, I usually leave promptly and walk to the subway, take the 30 minute ride to my stop, grab a bus, and 10 minutes later I'm sliding the key into the door of my apartment. Time to make dinner - usually something healthy, because I like to take care of myself. I read, or sometimes talk to friends on the phone, and maybe a little TV. In the morning, time for a two mile run, a shower, and then reverse the process from the night before.

I've dated off and on over the years, but I've never really found the guy I'm looking for. Who am I looking for? I'll know when I see him. This probably sounds snooty, but most guys seem interested in me because of my looks; maybe that's just a preconceived - or overly hopeful - notion on my part. But, it's a hard feeling to shake when you think all a guy wants is your body, and couldn't care less about who you are. Hitting 30 was kind of depressing for me, but now that a few years have passed since that milestone, I'm okay with it - okay with being single, okay with being 33, okay with myself, okay with my life.

And that has a lot to do with the part about my job that I've discovered that can be interesting.

One fateful winter morning, as soon as I arrived, my boss called me into his office.

"Lisa, we have a terrible situation," he said. "Please close the door."

He motioned urgently for me to come in, not letting me even take my coat off. Whenever Antoine called me in a closed-door meeting, I knew it had the potential to be serious. This time, I was right to be concerned.

"After hours yesterday, Sherril from accounting found - " Antoine caught his breath and paused, his forehead furrowed. "I - I just don't know how to say this, especially to you." He put his elbows on the desk and buried his face in her hands. As I looked on I began to worry. A flood of fearful thoughts streamed through my mind, not the least of which, "Am I about to be let go?"

Finally, Antoine slowly turned her computer monitor toward me, almost whispering, with an apologetic tone, "I'm sorry, Lisa, but I have to show you this, since you're my assistant." My fears building, my heart beat wildly in my chest. He explained, "Sherril forgot her purse after she left yesterday, and came back for it. She saw Cal Limpkins ... " His voice trailed off.

I looked at the monitor, blinking dumbly at the screen. In an email window was a photograph. It was of the office space one floor below, in the accounting area, the light dimmed as it always was after hours, since half of the banks of light automatically went dark after quitting time. Near the middle of the screen was a dark male form, angled to the left. In his hand was a phone receiver, but it wasn't up to his ear. Because he was far from the camera, I couldn't make sense of it.

"I don't understand, Antoine," I said, looking at him quizzically. "What - "

"Look closely!" he whispered harshly. I rose from my chair and leaned in toward the screen. I could make out Cal's face. I'd seen him enough, since he made regular trips to the little counter attached to my cubicle for various errands, for personal information regarding changes to his benefits, and for business.

I could see the phone clearly in his left hand - the receiver cord was stretched horizontally across the desk, and he held the phone in front of him. And what was that in his right hand?

"Oh my!" I exclaimed. "Oh my, god! Oh my!" That was all I could say as I pulled away from the screen, startled, stunned, otherwise speechless. "Oh my!" I sat down and stared at Antoine.

"Sherril saw him, and he didn't see her. She thought something looked weird. So she hid behind a cubicle. He was going to all the female's desks ... And he was doing that."

"That" was revolting and scary, beyond creepy, beyond gross. He was rubbing his penis on all the phones at the desks of females! I was sick to my stomach. My mind became a torrent of questions I didn't really want to know the answer to:

How long has he been doing this? How many phones had he done this to? Did he have any diseases? What else has he done?

Antoine angrily clicked the email closed and we sat in silence for a minute or so. He looked pale. I'm sure I looked the same way. My nausea turned to anger.

"How quickly can we fire the son of a bitch?" I demanded.

"Exactly," Antoine said. "We'll do that within the hour. I have to talk to his boss, first, of course. And then when it's time call his boss and him up, I'll let you know so you can contact IT to cancel his access immediately."

When Cal walked by my cubicle, I stole a glance at him. He was in his forties; nature had been good to him. He was handsome and friendly, the kind of guy you could trust. All of that only increased my hatred toward him. I felt betrayed. I felt hot with anger as he went by me, by his boss, and into Antoine's office.

His boss was as shocked as we were, and disgusted by it. He had stood pacing in front of my cubicle while waiting for Cal, his face red, his fists clenched, his jaw set. I made the call to IT.

I was surprised that I heard nothing from inside, though i was so close to Antoine's closed door, save for a pleading tone that lasted about 30 seconds. After 15 minutes or so, his boss emerged, still red faced and with fire in his eyes. He stepped aside and glared at Cal, who walked past, head hanging, eyes red and swollen with tears. His boss followed him, to escort him to his desk to gather his personal things, and then out of the building.

We had a series of off-the-record meetings that day to decide what to do. I was in favor of calling the police, since we had photographic evidence. But I was outnumbered, most of the executives being male. They decided that by not pressing charges, they could essentially blackmail Cal into keeping quiet, not that he wouldn't anyway. They didn't want publicity like this, and the lawsuits that could arise would make a mess. So to protect themselves, they concocted a story that the phone headsets were faulty and needed to be replaced. I was relieved, at least, not to have to use a rubber glove when I picked up the phone, and hold it away from my mouth and ear.

That was the last of Cal. The official explanation for his firing was simply, "failure of integrity," which could mean a lot of things. Antoine and I met with Sherril, explained that he'd been fired, and the firm offered free counseling if she desired, along with a hefty check for her trouble. She seemed content.

I was not, however. It wasn't so much that the firm didn't pursue charges on him. It was the idea that he'd done what he did. It repulsed me. What other things went on around the office after hours? And I couldn't help but wonder how such an innocent, married, seemingly happy man could be such a pervert.

I found myself dwelling on this more and more. My anger subsided over the weeks into intrigue. Why would he do that? What was the thrill for him?

One evening in February, the Friday before Martin Luther King's birthday, the office emptied out earlier than normal. Antoine left, too. I had a few things to wrap up, and since I had no plans, and since it was bitter cold outside, I decided to put off bracing myself for the walk to the subway by sticking around to clean my slate for next week.

I lost track of time as I was working on a draft for a new company policy on sick leave, when the lights on the floor suddenly went into "after hours" mode, half of them going dark. Startled, I looked at the clock: 8 p.m., much later than I'd thought. With half the lights off, it was noticeably quieter, and even more so since I was the only one there.

As my mind took all of this in, I looked across the office area in front of me, a collection of cubicles much like mine, snapshots, papers, a scarf here and there, a briefcase, all silently waiting. In the subdued light, a picture flashed through my mind: Cal, phone in one hand, and in his other, his ... I laughed out loud, surprising myself at my noisy outburst. I covered my mouth reflexively, listening to myself snicker, the image playing in my mind.

Some time must have passed by, because the next thing I knew, I found myself sitting there staring into space, my hand still over my mouth. The thought running through my head? "Try it, Lisa. Then you'll know why."

"No," I said aloud, startling myself again. I shook my head and went back to work. But again, I found myself staring into space a few minutes later. This pattern repeated itself a half a dozen times. Finally I got up, disgusted with myself, and went to the ladies room. I dabbed cold water on my face with a towel. Again, this time standing, I stared into space. "God, Lisa, get a hold on yourself!" I muttered as I came to.

I looked at myself in the mirror over the sink, looked into my eyes, and shaking a finger, repeated, "Lisa, get a hold of yourself!" I smiled reassuringly and nodded. I turned the water off and looked again. The water dripped, making the only sound besides the quiet rush of air in the heating system. I looked at myself again. "Not bad for 33," I thought to myself. I smiled contentedly at the way my auburn hair framed my face, almost touching my shoulders. I'd always liked the outfit I wore that day, too: brown leather knee-high boots with a short heel, a brown wool skirt to just above the knee, and a matching wool fitted blazer with an off-white button blouse underneath.

Now I was staring at myself, and the thought wouldn't leave me. "Lisa, Lisa, Lisa," I thought. "You do have a devilish side! But this is nonsense. Go home before you get yourself into trouble!"

I hurried out of the ladies room and back to my cubicle. I sat down to turn off the computer. As it shut down, I stared into space again. I looked at the clock: 9:30 already! I should go. I realized now that I was having an argument with myself, one that scared me, yet intrigued me. My heart beat fast, and my breathing heavy, almost as if I was running.

Just one thing. No one will know. You're the only one here. But what should I do? This is nuts! You're a grown woman! You don't want to be like that pervert do you? What if you got caught like he did? Just one quick thing. Come on, girl, have some guts! It might be fun! Of course, that's kind of what I'm afraid of - and hoping for ... No! No! No! This isn't like me! God, maybe I need counseling! Just one thing, just to see how it feels. Just one thing. Just one thing ...

That last refrain kept ringing in my head.

Something inside had clicked. I could almost feel it happen. I knew I was going to do this.

But what, exactly?

I wasn't sure how to proceed. My breathing slowed, but my heart still pounded. Impulsively, I took my boots off. I decided to walk around the area in my stocking feet, both to scout and to think. It took about two minutes to slowly make the circuit back to my cubicle. I felt vulnerable out there, but back in my cubicle, I still felt vulnerable, but less so.

I sat in my chair again, very still, and listened. All quiet. I slipped out of my blazer, folding it neatly in half and laying it on my desk. I sat still for another half minute I heard myself think, "Take off your skirt. even if someone came by, they couldn't tell with you sitting down."

Of course to do so required standing. Slowly, obeying my own command, I stood. Reaching behind my waist, I felt the zipper. "Oh god," I whispered, and pulled downward. I felt the skirt loosen around my hips. My heart thumped in my chest. I was in a dreamlike state, but I'd never felt more real and alive!

I stepped out of my skirt, and it joined the blazer on my desk. I felt wonderful, which surprised me. As intrigued as I'd been, I thought I would panic in disgust at myself and reverse this process posthaste. Instead, I stood there, eyes wide with excitement, and slight grin crossing my lips.

Using my darkened computer screen as a mirror of sorts, I stepped back and looked at myself. My off-white tights matched my blouse, which hung free below my waist. I gathered the blouse in front of me, pulling it up and turning sideways so I could see my butt, clearly visible in the screen. My running had been good for my body; my butt was toned and round, and my thighs looked good in my tights. "Thirty-three and size six," I whispered in congratulations to myself.

I paused and stood still, listening intently. Coast still clear and quiet as a mouse, I stepped out in front of my cubicle and performed a little twirl in celebration of my bravery. I set my elbows on the little counter that so many employees used to talk to me and look over paperwork, imagining them next week as they stood there ignorant of my little display. I smiled.

I retreated again to my cubicle and sat in my chair. It felt strange and exciting, even though it was a place I normally thought of as the bedrock of boredom. Funny how not wearing one layer of clothing could make such a difference, in spite of the fact that my tights, though form fitting, we're not exactly revealing.

I stopped to listen again: Nothing. I looked at the clock: 10:17. "Why do I keep looking at the time?" I thought. "The subway and buses run all night, so no worries."

I was having fun, and I wanted more. I felt completely reckless, but in such an exciting way that I'd never experienced before. This was so out of character for me, so unladylike, so unlike my normally shy and even prudish self. But I was exhilarated.

I heard another command inside my head: "Take off your blouse."

"Oh god," I whispered again. Remembering the I had a chemise on as well, for warmth, made the task of courage a little easier than it otherwise might have been, but it was definitely not an outer garment either, with its lace at the top and its slightly sheer blend of spandex and cotton. When I finished unbuttoning the blouse, I stood to pull it off.

The air on my shoulders felt like erotic caresses. As surprised as before at my reaction when I'd removed my skirt, I let the blouse slip off and into my chair behind me. I crossed my arms in front of me, partly in embarrassment because of where I was, and partly to hug myself, and to feel my warm hands on the bare skin of my neck and shoulders. I looked out at the office in front of me in the dim light. It was a moment to revel in!

I stepped back to see myself in the computer screen again. Though not tight, the chemise was snug enough to reveal the curve of my breasts safely at rest in my bra. Matching my tights, my feminine form was clear in the reflection on the screen. I turned around and looked over my shoulder; my butt looked nice. The outline of my panties was evident even in the subdued reflection of the black monitor.

I walked around again to the counter, first facing the office area and stretching seductively, and then turned and placed my elbows on the counter, my butt sticking out. I closed my eyes and imagined Sarah and Miguel, who would have had the best view from their desks had they been there. I realized I was smiling broadly. I opened my eyes and looked down under my chemise at my cleavage, exaggerated a bit because of my leaning on the counter.

Another command: "The tights must go."

I sucked in a breath and hesitated, trying to reason with myself, my instincts telling me that I was nearing a point of no return very quickly. It was one thing to flirt with this, but any further, it would get serious.

A disjointed series of images flashed through my mind, alternating between the good me and the newly discovered bad me: My parents, Cal, women I admired who clearly would never do what I was doing, Cal, a nun I knew while a growing up, Cal, Cal, Cal ...

Standing there at my counter, butt facing the office, I made my decision. Hooking a thumb at each hip under the waistband, I began working my tights downward. I felt the air brush across the backs of my thighs, and I knew I wasn't turning back. Working them over my calves, my butt in the air, I felt heavenly. As they slid over my toes, I felt incredible!

I threw the tights over my counter into my cubicle. I turned and walked over to Miguel's desk. I could see my reflection in his monitor through the opening in his cubicle. It was strange watching the woman in the reflection - her firm thighs flexing with each step, her hips moving as she walked - knowing that it was me! The off-white boy shorts were a good match for the chemise. I could even see the lace panel on the front that wrapped around my hips. I stood in Miguel's cubicle and turned to look at my butt again. My round cheeks were not quite covered because of the style, one which I think flatters me. It was obscene standing there like that in Miguel's cubicle. But I wasn't about to put my clothes back on.

I decided it was time for a stroll. I paused to listen. Hearing nothing, I walked without choosing a direction, tip toeing, stopping every few steps to listen. I found myself along the outside wall between the cubicles and the executive offices. At each door, I paused to make sure there was no one there.

Next I turned left, into an aisle between cubicles. My heart was thrilled, beating wildly. My senses were more alert than I knew they could be, and I was hyper sensitive to touch - but touching my bare skin all the while, to feel my vulnerability and near nakedness. That word, "naked," played over and over in my head. I had never been this interested in it before. Occasionally I would stop and sit in someone's chair, feeling the rough material on my thighs and cheeks.

I returned to my desk, disappointed that my tour was over. It was only 10:45! Only a little less than a half hour had passed since my last look at the clock. It had seemed like a long time, but my mind had been racing, compressing what seemed like minutes into seconds. It was an amazing high, far better than any of the substances I'd tried in college.

Reason raised its now ugly head to me at this point. I wanted to continue, and knew I would, but it would have to be some other time, after I'd had a chance to think about what I was getting into. I reluctantly slipped back into my clothes, stuffing my tights in my bag, thinking the cold air, though brutal, would do me some good. Pulling on my coat, I walked to the elevators, and out of the building, looking forward, for once, to next week.