‘That’
A mutually self-indulgent gift for my friend, @moogiorin, fellow acolyte of similar tastes and appropriate standards, as congratulations for finishing his move. Based on a conversation we had regarding this and this. 2,396 words.
Sealing order, inspection slip, haunted house negotiation, public event security detail, another sealing order, and three different XCG-747-6 pink and yellows that need to be filled and filed before the day ends. Your job’s never been easy, but most of the time, it’s out there, in the field, in the streets, where things are happening, where your wits and calm discipline are needed to make quick decisions, not behind a desk, swamped under an interminable monolith of paperwork and stamps. You feel that if your wrist had hands of its own, its own wrists would be as tired as yours is from strangling you for putting it under this sort of labor. Six and a half hours, and you haven’t stopped for one second, sans the seventeen seconds it took you to produce a new piece of chewing gum from your drawer. Your job’s never been easy, but you were unlucky enough to be assigned as “the paperwork slave” this period, and it couldn’t be a more dull task if it tried. You’ve seen molasses slowly crawling down a wall more extreme than any of this. Slugs moving might as well be Formula 1 if put next to what you’ve been doing these last three days.
Quite frankly, and to summarize all of this in one line instead of trying to give more lyricism and tears than it needs: It Sucks.
But you’ve never been one to complain. Oh no, your pencil, this boredom be damned, carves a trail of graphite through these forms. You can’t be stopped. You can’t be contained. You are the Bureaucracy Behemoth, the beginning of a legend that will be remembered in Headquarters for years to come! Or so you thought yesterday, but you are really, really biffed right now. You have come to a halt, a piddling speed that is equivalent to half of a grandma’s scooter. You can’t take this anymore.
And someone else in the room has noticed this.
“You’ve been awfully slow today, Chief. What happened to that bravado? That enthusiasm? Those promises of victory and triumph? It’s not like you to get battered by such lesser foes.”
Ah, crap. Just what you needed. Her.
You make a thumbs up and a hand gesture that would mean nothing to anyone except her, but she knows it stands for “no problem”. Her response comes in the form of a sweet, mocking chuckle that doesn’t believe either of your gestures, flustering you just a bit. You tell her it’s fine, you’ve been at it for three days now, there’s a lot of work left, but it’s certainly less than it was two days ago, you got it. Her response comes in the form of a sweeter, even more mocking chuckle, punctuated with an “uh-huh.” that makes you wanna turn, face her, and make a bet with her, as you always do. You know that the incentive of a bet would really help right now. You wouldn’t mind seeing her eat her words and, most importantly, her chuckles. It’s been that way with you both ever since the Academy days. But you can’t do that. You simply cannot do that today. You cannot face her, not today of all days.
Because she’s wearing that.
She’d only been on the corner of your eye, and you immediately averted your sight. You could tell instantly that it was that, and you simply didn’t dare look at her directly. “It could just have been something similar”, you entertained, but every time she moved, in this closed, not too big room, you heard its rubbery stretching and contracting, subtle yet impossibly loud to you, as her legs moved. You could hear how tight that was around her abundant thighs with each step she took, pressing against those soft, pale, bountiful legs. Oh, she was doing work, alright, walking from cabinet to cabinet, from drawer to drawer, but it was always in a circle around you. If you weren’t any wiser, you’d think this is just a coincidence, but you know better, you know this is entirely deliberate, a conscious patterns she knows drives you nuts, because you and her know one important, quintessential, key fact:
She holds your weaknesses. By the lord, she knows every single one of them to heart.
This wasn’t a workplace, this was a predator taunting her prey, a mental domination that crushed your every thought easily and trivially.
She always held that power over you.
You cough and mention something about a dress code. “You know we don’t have a dress code.” she whimsically replies with naught but the truth as she intentionally takes a long step, the rubbery spandex making those accursed sounds even more pronounced as it stretches against her thighs. Your office has always been hyper efficient thanks to you two, and one of the perks this has given you is that Headquarters doesn’t waste your time with surprise inspections. This means that, yes, she can wear that and it’s perfectly fine. It’s an ambivalent feeling, knowing you’ve done well enough to get this special treatment, yet knowing, at the same time, that this is the very reason as to why you were being tortured this way right now. A torture that felt asphyxiating, and yet, one that you wouldn’t trade for anything in the world, emotions that brought by yet another feeling of ambivalence by themselves. Just thinking about this puts you in a weird and flustered mood, so you simply chew your gum faster and harder to try and distract yourself.
“You seem really tired, Chief. Your pencil stopped moving a couple of minutes ago. Perhaps you are focused on something else?” she says with a tinge of knowing mockery in her voice, her face sporting a smug expression that you couldn’t see, but knew for sure it was there. The rubbery sound approaches you with each step, much to your horror, until you can feel her presence right next to you. Notably, and regrettably, right next to your face, just outside of your peripheral vision, you know that is there. So, so very close to your face. You can feel the warmth from her thighs and her characteristically sweet and intoxicating scent strongly. “Hm? No response? You won’t even look at me, huh~? That’s kinda rude, Chief, even if it’s you. I don’t think I can let you get away with that.”
Now, based on your experiences and your knowledge of your years-long partner, there’s two outcomes to what she just said: Option one is that she just stands there for a while, very close to you, knowing the exertion and pressure this puts on you, overwhelming you with her presence and scent until she’s satisfied mentally dominating you like this with a knowing grin on her face, fully aware that you are powerless against her. Option two, less likely but far more lethal and thus it can’t be ruled out, is that she does The Forbidden Maneuver. The FM, as you call it, is a special technique she doesn’t do all too often, which only helps make it even more devastating when she actually does perform it, and it consists on, simply put, sitting on your lap unannounced and making herself comfortable, nuzzling against your body with hers until she is fully content. Of course, she never is fully content, so it involves a lot of rubbing, pressing, and shifting, which usually spells doom for your attention and more so for whatever task it is you’re trying to accomplish. This she-devil knows the destructive power of this maneuver, so it is only for special occasions, such as when you win a bet against her and she’s feeling a bit rancorous about it. Either way, you brace yourself for either and then it turns out you were wrong and didn’t consider option three.
She sits on your lap, alright, but she doesn’t sit normally, no sir, she sits facing you. If there’s anything that can be described as simultaneously shameless and graceful in this world, that is definitely the way in which she is currently pressing her whole body against yours, chest to chest, crotch to crotch, and forehead to forehead. Her arms are lazily slung over your shoulders, and most alarmingly, her lips are pressed against yours. It’s not a kiss, they are ‘simply’ pressed together, her cocky smile and your overstimulated grimace, touching. She nuzzles and cuddles a bit, trying to find a more comfortable posture, still plastered fully against you, your eyes invaded by her vermilion own, your thoughts occupied entirely by her scent and warmth. “Well?” she whispers in a minuscule voice, lips rubbing. “Can you focus now?”. This makes you accidentally swallow your chewing gum.
You avert your eyes, but she follows them. You press yourself back against your chair to minimize bodily contact, but she counters by pressing harder and fully. The back of your chair might as well be the wall against which this predator has you cornered against, with zero possibility of you escaping her. Her scent is intoxicating, her soft and abundant thighs pressed against you, the rubbery sounds of latex from her biking shorts, which you can no longer afford to not acknowledge, as well as the shuffling sound of your clothes rubbing together has sent your mind into DEFCON 1, red alert, maximum danger, what have you. Her arms fully circle around your neck and press your faces softly but boldly, and she does the same with her legs around your waist, a demure expression on her face replacing the smug mask she had seconds prior. “Hey...” she whispers, but you don’t answer, trying to move your pencil hand to try to pretend you’re still working, that this isn’t assaulting every single one of your senses, “try” being the key word here, because it tricks neither of you. “Hey...” she whispers again, a bit higher, her hips rocking back and forth to a slow, pacific, agonizing rhythm. You can feel your composure, or whatever facsimile of a composure you like to believe you are tricking her with, melting. Things that aren’t her are starting to, quite frankly, not matter in the slightest, and if it’s the office, well, so be it, you are cornered this badly by the Forbidden Maneuver 2, might as well just admit defeat and indulge in this feast of the flesh. You drop the pencil, close your eyes, and wrap your arms around her curvaceous body, ready to return the favor, when you realize you didn’t catch a thing between your arms. She was gone. Her scent, warmth, and her lovely curves feel as if they were imprinted in your body, in your mind, and you can clearly feel her body still, even though she’s not there.
“...Pff! You were actually going to, huh? It’s my win, then!” her voice comes from behind your chair. She was always really flexible and agile, so it doesn’t surprise you at all that she managed to pull off a escape like that. “That’s no good, Chief.”
Your embarrassment cannot be put into words with any human language. You really were gonna do that. You really had surrendered to your desires like that... But then again, who couldn’t, when confronted with such titanic and overwhelming seduction from the person you trust the most in your life? From the person that not only holds your weakness, but that has also had your back since you were greenhorns? That has walked the walk with you since the days you both were inexperienced and foolish? That has contributed to both of your mutual successes as much as she has? Well, those are excuses, this is still the office, and even though there’s no dress code, there IS a conduct code: Your own morality. You sigh somewhat dejectedly, disappointed in yourself, when she repeats those words. “That’s no good, Chief. You really are exhausted. If you weren’t, you would’ve noticed I moved out of the way. Hell, you would’ve caught me. As your second-in-command, I forbid you from working anymore right now.”
Your eyes spring at her, and you can tell she means it. This is no mockery, no taunting, no playing around. She truly is concerned for you. “I’m not going to try and convince someone as stubbornly dutiful as you to just not do that frankly ridiculous amount of work, but I am asking you, not as your second-in-command, but as your friend, to put the pencil down and take a nap. You’ve not slept well at all the last few days, have you? Well, get to that! Come here.”
You try to argue, but she does have a point, and you can’t turn down a personal request from her, even if you really need to keep working. She locks the door and then sits on the sofa, waving for you to come close. As you sit next to her, she pats her thighs lightly twice. “Now come and sleep.” The implication is clear as water, and you give her that “what in the Two Worlds are you suggesting” look you give her when she makes a ridiculous demand, but she doesn’t budge. It’s not the dominating smirk that faces you right now, nor is it the playfully mocking chuckles. It’s a sincere, warm smile that could melt icebergs, affection mixed with genuine concern for someone important to her, an invitation not to a battle of wills, but a sincere lap pillow she’s offering to a certain someone that has truly worried her from his overworking. You sigh and resign yourself, again, to play by her rules. She has a way of making you do that.
As your head lays on her soft thighs, you feel your eyes become heavy, not helped by her fingers that run through your hair, gentle, caring, loving. Her other hand holds your own, and you can hear a few faint, almost inaudible “thanks for always working hard.” You’re not sure if that was your imagination or her, and you don’t have much time to think about it before you fall asleep on your pillow of soft thighs and latex biking shorts, involuntarily nuzzling on it to find a comfortable position as she keeps playing with your hair.
It’s just another day in your office, where you do a job you love alongside your favorite person in the world. Filling out a couple of XCG-747-6 pink and yellows doesn’t feel daunting anymore.