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Ever notice how work has a way of following you home
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Distracted at Your Desk
"There's a time and place for everything," your mom used to say. The surroundings offered by the office provided a certain ambiance. The geometric modernesque prints lined the halls. Telephones were programmed with certain rings to alert coworkers to their targeted calls. Everyone showed up, to put in their time, make their days, and escape back into their lives.
Headphones always offered you that chance to zone out, loosing yourself in your duties, whenever the task warranted your total concentration. Maxwell's music seemed to have an effect on you unlike any sounds you'd heard of late. That voice, and those lyrics seemed to just make everyone disappear.
The jacket of your suit hung high upon the hook that clamped to the top of your cubicle. The shimmering colors of your silk blouse added brightness to the business world that held you captive for too much of your day.
You seemed to watch the scene unfold. Your body at your desk, in a semiconscious state of absorption, as you gaze into your screen. Looking down he is there before you. slowly unbuttoning your blouse. You watch as he exposes your shoulders, and the floral print of the soft-cup bra that holds your breasts.
His hands stroke at your neck, carefully working around the earbuds that hook you to the music playing from your CD-ROM. He massages your neck, and eases all the tensions of deadlines too near to consider for the moment.
Maxwell's music softly plays, his words in English, then in Spanish soothe your soul as this lover arouses your desires. He pulls you up, as you find yourself drawn to respond. The disembodied you looks down to see your lips now tightly pressing against your mate's. There are no keystrokes clattering, no signals responded to from the flashing telephone. You watch your lover and yourself in the empty office. The welling arousal takes
control and frees you from the tedium of the day.
Your blouse slides down to fall across your empty chair, your lover strips you of the trappings of career. A skirt drops to the floor, the only eyes to see are yours as you stare at this other you responding to the moment. His warm, wet lips are at your neck. Your nakedness framed by the cityscape seen through windowed walls filled with afternoon sun.
Two hands grip at your waist and slide you back, as you lean against your desk. You stare down upon the scene. Your eyes fixed tightly to the passion you enjoy. Your mouth now offers up the sounds of love never heard in such a place. Your cubicle is filled with pleasure that sends you spinning into ecstasy.
Your desk is now a better place. Your body lies across your work, your lover is there to pleasure you. The whole scene is watched by your eyes transfixed on these two bodies now entwined across the littered refuse of your work.
You are open and responsive, the scene that fills your voyeur eyes is orchestrated by the music of the Maxwell C-D that conjured up this beautiful ballet. You watch your naked body ravaged by your lover at your desk. The feelings of pleasure now overtake the spirit you that sees it all.
The music and the movement, the melodies and the moments pass, the warmth of fulfillment washes over you as you watch your sated body, collapse into your chair. The vision fades, your clothes are on, your lover disappears.
Your brow is damp, your mouth is dry, you feel moist and warm, the music stops. You make a note to buy Maxwell's Greatest Hits.
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Then there are those times when the ride home is just a blur
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The Commute
The crush of people behind you stops as the automated voice says "Doors Closing", then "Please Stand Clear of the Doors!" Through your tearing eyes you see a tall form bounding through the door of the train. There is no time to focus as the train lurches forward. pulling out of the still-crowded station. The tube's flickering lights shine through the windows as the train slows to a stop. The doors open and you feel the crush of more people
headed into the car. Pushed ahead of the crowd you see the tall stranger. You notice his square, clean-shaven jaw, and his dark, deep-set eyes showing a depth, but exuding warmth. In the moving train, you feel the gentle swaying right and left as you grasp the bar above your head.
The stranger looks around at an open seat. He glances down at your purse, the now damp umbrella in your hand, and the weary look on your face. You hear his voice, "Please have a seat", as he steps to one side. You settle into your chair, the stranger's haunting words still linger in your head. "He simply offered me a seat, but that voice", you think, as the train's lights dim and it heads into the night. The outer darkness of the subway tunnel
ends as the suburban commuter route begins.
Your mind escapes the harried pace of the day. You afford yourself only selfish thoughts. You focus on your choices, your desires, and your fantasies. Engulfed in a sea of vague shapes, you draw the stranger's image deep into your mind. He becomes a part of the world that you control, based solely upon self-fulfillment, pleasure, and your own needs. You abandon your roles of mommy, wife, and worker. You are simply a woman, craving
unconditional pleasure, nonjudgmental thrills, and consuming satisfaction. You have retreated beyond the teenage nymph who discovered sex for the first time. You are pursuing total arousal without the duty to the feelings in any mutual way.
You use the stranger's voice, and image as the means of your fulfillment. You undress him in your mind, stripping back his raincoat,. then his jacket, loosening his tie, and opening his shirt. You immerse yourself in this odd fantasy careening down the tracks toward your suburban reality. You know that you will not be mounted but are free to mount. You can ease down slowly upon what you want, or thrust down hard and pull off as you desire.
Foreplay, should you choose, will be an end to itself, but also if you choose a prelude to whatever passions you seek to fulfill. Your eyes are closed tightly as you ride down the track. You ride something else which only your own mind can best describe. The train rushes forward as you periodically glance at the stranger to renew his image. You shudder, and flush delighted by the open possibilities. You feel the fullness of your breast
heaving to strain against your moistened blouse. You hear your own labored breathing over the rolling clatter of the train. Wave after wave engulfs your body as you squirm grinding further back into the seat. You keep your upper body still as you rock back and forth below your waist in the darkness.
You hear the operator call a stop as you continue the drama playing out in your soul. The image of the stranger fulfills your every whim. You volunteer nothing, and he gives everything as deep moans rise involuntarily from your throat. The night sky flashes by, the noise of the train builds around and blends over your whispered cries. The operator calls the last stop. "End of track , this train is out of service". The lights are on, you feel a
slight dampness around your hairline as you breathe in deeply. The tall man rises from his seat across the aisle. In the doorway he pauses, and speaks. "Perhaps I'll see you again sometime". He smiles broadly as he walks out the door.
You now feel an unsettling sadness as you think, "could he have known, what did he see." Composing yourself on the empty platform, you wipe away your tears, sigh deeply and think, "perhaps I'll take this train again tomorrow."
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