by Count of Shadows
(10/03/01)
It was still twenty minutes before the coffee break, and the lament that came from the lips of Miss Scaltor, the office's official diva, was operatic: an aria of drawn out sighs and mourning trills of loss that wrung the heart. Her voice rose in timbre and volume as she paused over certain phrases and floated them diva-like to the soul through the eardrums. Foreign-sounding syllables slipped out of her gaping throat, guttural and passion-ridden until you imagined her heart would burst and she would collapse into a pool of anguish upon the beige carpet; rivulets of her desires and crushed hopes mingling and yet -- as they sped onward -- fading into dried arroyos to carry the faint echo of her soul's want out into an uncaring desert landscape.
"I am desolate," she cried. "The drumbeat of me is dying." She mimed a scene from bass-player agonistes, all taut muscle and restrained upsurges. "That bastard! Oh, I am lost. We are all lost! We must have the Ocuna account balanced by this afternoon!"
All her thirty-five years were suddenly upon her face, like a flash of sky light. "I don't know about anyone else, but I haven't been getting any." A sigh -- musical as wind chimes idling -- escaped her full breasts. She glanced around and ran her hands lightly over them. She pouted dramatically.
"I hate that Ocuna account."
She spun a half-turn in her chair; it creaked.
She fluttered her fingers over her keyboard. "Never mind. I'm on it."
At the next cubicle, a sudden wave of highly fluted and raucous notes announced Miss Habib had removed her earphones. "Did you say something, Dore? I thought I heard you say something."
Dore Scaltor flicked her eyes sharply. She shook her head. Her eyes back at her computer screen while her fingers automatically clicked out pages of numbers, she drifted. Her mind filled with speeding glimpses of swarthy muscular men, holding her hands, her feet. A whirl of angry caresses, she imagined, assaulting her with raw arousals.
"You got it bad," Miss Habib giggled with a shrug. She tucked her brown ears beneath the tiny foam pads of her headset and poked at a red-glowing key. "Annabelle Habib. Can I help you?" She dipped her head lower and whispered into the microphone at her lips. "No. I cannot do that. Yes. What do you think, that I go out of my house without underwear on? No, Rashid. Do not call me here."
She poked at a second button. "This is Annabelle. Yes, sir. I can bring it in now." She stood up sharply and then squatted, flexing her knees. "Ahhhhh."
Dore watched her walk away, swinging wide hips beneath a tight plain cotton dress. She was tempted to call out: You forgot your kneepads. For months, she'd known that the office was a zoo; a collection of beasts and parasites and confused cuddly things that were amusing to watch but impossible to tame.
She was, she just knew, an island here: uncharted and dangerous at the coasts, green and lush and nurturing inland...and centrally, the great volcano of her; as yet unerupted. But someday...
A brutal fuck had left her skittish. The discoloring bruises on her arms, the sweaty drops of saltwater falling on her face, into her ears; gone now. Not rape at all, she said to herself with a nod. But it had confused her in pain and pleasure. She had no words or even images to describe the memory of it. It had swept her senses beyond control; electrified her nerves until she thought she went super nova. Like an impossibly elongated scream frozen within her throat, she had climaxed; unable to help herself, really. She touched her left ear.
With a start, she realized she was moist down there, and blushed hotly. A good hard fuck took me by surprise, she thought. Gentle, hesitant lovers had lulled her passions; left her body a shimmering gauze of soft touchings, softer licks. But not from him: animal.
She looked down at her computer, surprised that she hadn't blindly typed out: His small muscular fingers had gripped my hips and shook me, moved me faster... But only numbers sat mutely on her screen: 696969696969...000000000000. She deleted them and resumed typing, glancing aside for the correct numbers on a smudged sheet.
She swung her heels outward, balancing on the balls of her feet, feeling her labia squeeze together. She could feel driplets of herself gliding downward to tickle a wet stream against her butt. Her shoulders shuddered and she closed her eyes, just an instant. She'd just flooded him, couldn't help it. Gushed and flowed her own thin cum all over his thick, hard cock as he stuck it in her; she flushed, body heated and cheeks reddening.
Opening her eyes, she tapped fingertips against slightly-curved pieces of plastic and vaguely watched pixels form into numbers without meaning. She stopped and stood, peering over the wall of her cubicle. Through blurring eyes, she saw herself made manifold, another and another version of her, sitting in cubicles, as far as the eye could see and forever. She slumped back into her chair, arms dangling in a performer's exaggerated final gesture. Life exhausted her; used her up in ticking moments when she should be having her body ecstasized and her soul uplifted. Anything else just plain sucked.
Her headset flashed. She adjusted the earphones and microphone. "Dore Scaltor. What? Who is this? Rashid, she's still with the boss. Oh, come on. Yes, I am." As she listened, she was suddenly aware of the feel of the silk of her panties against her wetness. "Well? Okay, they're white." She nervously looked around and lowered her voice. "I think you'd better take that up with Miss Habib." She laughed. "No, white does not mean I am a virgin! I'm not! Well, you don't have to tell me that. I don't want to hear about that kind of stuff, Rashid. You are not!"
Dore sucked at her lower lip. She fought the growing image Rashid was describing: of his slow strokes along a rigid cock. She wanted him to stop this right now! She did. It wasn't right. Why doesn't he stop?
"No, no. Stop it! I would not!" Her eyes glanced up and around the room. She barely breathed into the microphone. "I would not kiss the tip of it, Rashid. Now, please. Stop this. I'm going to tell Miss Habib if you don't." Still, eyes closed, she saw in mind's eye a stunning close view of the head of a bulbous, swollen cock. Almost by instinct, the tip of her tongue slipped between her lips. "I am not," she whispered a lie into the microphone, feeling the truth of her wetness between her thighs.
Now she could hear Rashid's growling voice as he lapsed into a language she did not understand. She heard a frenzied liquid slapping sound and then silence. Dore clicked off her headset and sat for a moment paralyzed. She looked up to see Miss Habib walking toward her. She smiled.
The laughter that came from Miss Scaltor's lips was operatic: an aria of drawn out giggles and loud trills of hilarity that pounded at the heart.
