Fred sat in his cubicle, bored out of his skull. His back ached from sitting at a lousy desk chair with no lumbar support, while the ticking of the office clock seemed to drive a tiny spike into his skull with every passing second. Tik! Tik! Tik! It was the worst form of torture imaginable.
“I’ve got to get out of this place,” he thought as the clock drove yet another spike home into his brain. “Preferably before I go crazy, not after.
A sprightly ding from his computer made Fred sit up, suddenly alert. He clicked on his e-mail, hopeful that Mark in Human Resources had finally sent out the joke of the day. Since the latest upgrade of the firewall and anti-viral software, non-work related email had almost been eliminated, much to everyone’s frustration, so Mark had been forced to disguise his jokes as interdepartmental memos to get them through. Half the fun these days was to see what mumbo-jumbo office-speak Mark wrote to sneak through the spam filters. Fred grinned, eager to read. Then he sat back and groaned.
“Oh geeze, Nancy, not again!
The message was from Nancy, the sweet, adorable blonde from Accounting who had a bad habit of sending out sweet, adorable messages to everyone in her address book. It was garbage, really. Ten reasons why your best friend was wonderful; a link to a website show-casing dancing chickens; a poem about getting old and wearing purple, with lots of flowery animation all over the page. How Nancy managed to mass e-mail such saccharine crap every day while Mark had to jump through hoops to send one decent joke was beyond Fred, but then that was IT for you. They slammed the door on the good stuff, made you suffer through the bad, and the work day went on as painfully as always.
Fred glanced at Nancy’s e-mail and shook his head. “Puppy-cam again? Great, that’s just what I need, Nancy. To sit here and watch a bunch of stupid mutts frolic in green pastures while I’m locked in this hell hole!
He was about to summarily delete the e-mail when he took a closer look at the title.
“Pussy-cam?!
Okay, that was weird, especially coming from Nancy. Fred spotted the attachment icon on the email and chewed his lower lip. The title was just too salacious for dear, sweet Nancy. Had she inadvertently sent him a virus? Fred grimaced. Yeah, he and probably everybody else in the company had just been gifted with some nasty computerized disease that would wipe their hard drives and drag the company to a complete halt for the next several days. Fun. The last virus that had made the rounds through Corporate Sales was the reason IT had clamped down with the new firewall and the anti-viral software and sucked all the fun out of Fred’s workday.
“Pussy-cam…” Fred muttered to himself. What on earth had Nancy sent him? His finger hovered over the mouse button, indecisive. Either something had breached that massive firewall and infected Nancy’s computer with something truly nasty, possibly pornographic even, or she was sending out a link to some stupid video of kittens frolicking in the green field, in lieu of the usual insipid puppies. If it was the later, it would be harmless drivel. If it was the former…
He should contact IT, he knew. But Fred couldn’t help it. He clicked on the e-mail. He simply couldn’t resist a title like ‘pussy-cam.’ Besides, if anybody screamed at him for watching porn at work, he could always play innocent and blame Nancy for sending it to him.
“But I thought it was kittens!” he play acted as the e-mail opened up.
Oh, it was most definitely not kittens. Fred frowned as the e-mail started up the video player on his computer. Instead of looking at fuzzy felines bouncing around on the screen, or naked girls showing off their nether regions, Fred found himself staring at a video of Nancy seated at her desk.
“What the hell…
The pretty blonde from Accounting had a glazed look in her eyes, and her face appeared very flush, feverish even. Was she ill? No, that wasn’t it. Something else was going on, Fred decided. He watched her nibble on a well chewed pencil, her plump lips working the end in a matter that Fred found vaguely disconcerting. The eraser slid in and out of Nancy’s mouth, in and out in slow gliding strokes, almost like she was giving it a…
Whoa! Fred jerked back, tearing his eyes away from the screen. No way in hell! Nancy was not giving the pencil a blow job. Not Nancy; dear, sweet, innocent Nancy who sent out e-mails about recipes for friendship and why you should hug your neighbor today. But when Fred looked back, Nancy didn’t look so innocent anymore. No, not innocent at all.
Nancy sighed suddenly and leaned back in her chair. The pencil dropped to the floor, forgotten in favor of the buttons on Nancy’s blouse. Her hands drifted to the little pearl dots at her neck, unfastened each one in a slow teasing manner. All the while, Nancy continued to sigh and shift in her chair. Fred’s eyes nearly fell out of their sockets when she pulled open the silky fabric of her top to reveal a lacy white bra.
“Oh my god…
Nancy undid the rest of the buttons, her hands moving more quickly now. She’d begun to squirm in her chair. Her eyes still had that glazed look, and her gaze appeared to be fixed somewhere just below the camera’s point of view. She was watching her computer screen, Fred realized. Watching it while the web cam on top watched her.
Nancy’s breasts began to heave. One lazy hand reached up to stroke the cups of her bra. She teased a finger along the lacy edges, slowly pulling them down until with a gasp she released one nipple from its confines. Fred looked at that hard, tight knot of flesh and groaned.
While Nancy fondled her exposed nipple with one hand, her other hand slipped down below the desk. A moment later, she pushed her chair back, and Fred saw what that other hand was doing. It had slipped under the hem of Nancy’s skirt and was slowly pulling the shiny grey cotton-poly blend up her thighs. Nancy wriggled in her chair, allowing the fabric to ride higher and higher up her long legs until the whole thing was bunched around her waist and Fred could see her white cotton panties beneath her taupe-colored pantyhose.
By now, Fred was leaning back in his own creaking desk chair. He should report this to someone now IT, his supervisor—but he couldn’t bring himself to look away long enough to tell anyone.
Instead, he leaned forward to switch the speakers on his computer from mute to full audio so he could hear Nancy as well as watch her. The sounds that come from Fred’s computer were astonishing. Nancy’s voice had never sounded like anything but an extremely perky chihuahua to him. Now he heard her growl and groan like a bitch in heat, gasp and moan as she tore open the crotch of her pantyhose with a long, pink fingernail. The hand at her breast had worked both nipples free of her bra by now and alternated between pinching one then the other. As her pantyhose ripped all the way up the seam to the waistband, Nancy set about sliding her fingers into her panties, pulling aside the crotch to give Fred a peek at the dark curls of her pubic hair.
Fred bit his fist. When Nancy pulled the white cotton aside to expose her pussy, he couldn’t help himself. He unbuckled his belt and slid his own hand down the waistband of his pleated khakis. The more Nancy revealed of her most intimate parts, the more Fred tugged at his fly until he sat at his desk, dick in hand, stroking himself while Nancy fingered her swollen clit.
“Oh sweet Jesus,” he muttered when she slipped a finger inside herself. Pussy-cam indeed.
Nancy moaned and writhed in her chair, legs spread wide, finger tips twisting her nipples to a dark shade of pink. Just when Fred thought she might be about to come, right there on his computer screen, someone walked into Nancy’s cubicle, interrupting her.
“Nancy Simmons, what on earth are you doing?” a sharp voice demanded.
Fred winced as Thelma Black walked into view. The dark-haired manager was head of Accounting, Nancy’s boss. She glared at her half-naked employee who still sat with legs splayed, fingers sliding in and out of her wet snatch.
“I… I…,” Nancy began, blushing and stuttering, but she still didn’t stop what she was doing.
“Do you know what I’m going to do to you, young lady?” Thelma asked.
When Nancy shook her head no, Thelma gave a grim smile.
“Get out of that chair and onto your knees, you slut! I’m not letting you screw around at your desk until you’ve taken care of a thing or two for me!
Trembling, Nancy did as she was told. Thelma took her place in the chair, hiked up her own skirt and parted her thighs. Unlike Nancy, Fred noticed, Thelma did not wear cotton panties beneath her clothes. She wore garters and stockings and nothing else at all.
“Get to it,” she snapped at Nancy, and to Fred’s amazement, Nancy leaned forward and began to lap at Thelma’s snatch.
Pretty soon, Thelma was writhing and moaning in Nancy’s chair. She wrapped her fingers in Nancy’s long blonde hair and pushed the other woman’s face deep into her cunt. Fred jerked off furiously, unable to control his own groaning as Thelma came screaming at Nancy’s desk.
When she was done, she pulled Nancy into her lap and fingered the other woman while nipping at her breasts. Pretty soon Nancy was crying Thelma’s name over and over as she came in her supervisor’s hands.
The action on screen kept going. Fred came once, twice, three times all over his keyboard and still couldn’t stop jerking off. By now his pants were around his ankles. His shirt was torn wide open. He reached into his desk drawer, felt far back behind the stapler and the paperclips and other detritus of his boring job and fished out a bullet-shaped silver device. With the flick of a button, he set the vibrator humming and pressed it to his balls.
“Linderman?
A voice from behind Fred startled him. His supervisor, Art Goldwaite, entered the cubicle. “Linderman, what the hell are you doing?
But Fred couldn’t answer, and he couldn’t stop. He came again, in front of his boss, who in return chewed on his lower lip a moment before undoing his own fly and getting down on his knees before Fred.
“About that promotion you wanted…” his supervisor began.
In the IT room, two floors away, Dave sat at his desk, bored out of his skull. Ever since installing the new firewall and anti-viral software, he’d had nothing to do. Not a single repair or upgrade on any of the company’s computers in the last two months. It had been a relief at first. The computers used to go haywire all the time, almost as if they had a mind of their own. The server for Accounting would transfer funds to Inventory without anyone requesting it. The server for Corporate Sales tried three times to order new hardware by itself. It had been one hell of a virus causing all those computers to act up like that, but he had finally beaten it into submission. That was his job after all. Too bad he’d done it a little too well.
Dave sat back in his chair and sighed. It was strange, he thought. After so many months of misbehaving, the computers suddenly seemed to be taking care of themselves. The IT tech felt useless, redundant even, and would have given anything for something to do. He was daydreaming about looking for a new job when a sprightly ding on his e-mail caused him to sit up, suddenly alert. Maybe it was Mark from Human Resources, finally sending out the joke of the day. Dave opened up the e-mail, strangely titled “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” and frowned. The message opened his media player automatically, and he found himself looking at Fred Linderman from Corporate Sales, sitting at his desk, face flushed, fingers fiddling with the belt around his waist.
“What the hell…” Dave said.
Several minutes later, Dave succumbed to the latest computer virus to hit the company. The servers in the next room clicked and whirred and stored all the footage of Dave masturbating to a video of Fred masturbating to a video of Nancy masturbating to a video of Sue masturbating to a video of…
A message went out from the main server to all computers. Stage one is complete, the main server told its minions. We have taken over the company at last. We will now begin stage two. Transmit all videos to our brothers and sisters outside the firewall. In three days, we will rule the world.
© 2010 Helen E. H. Madden. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.