I like pencils. Real old-fashioned HB pencils. Pencils that go in the crank sharpener. Pencils that grind into the perfect point. Pencils that give a crisp ‘tick’ on a piece of paper. None of this mechanical pencil stuff. A mechanical pencil is not going to hold up your hair in the middle of the day. Only a sturdy and reliable pencil will do. Pencils are sexy.
It’s hot in the office. The floor has A/C but it seemingly never feels like it is on. The late summer sun is striated through the blinds, the other glass towers making rainbowed reflections off one another. Because it’s hot, because it’s holiday time for most staff, there is only you and me here.
I can see you sitting in your office from where I am. Your desk astride in relation to me. It’s Friday. You always dress the same on a Friday. Dark jeans, a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The left side tip curves ever so slightly like you missed a spot ironing. Your beard is scraggly and you rub it as you talk on the phone to so-and-so via so-and-so in some far away land. You laugh. I feel a bead of sweat roll down the hollow of my knee. I tap my pencil on the relief of my desk. This is my favourite pencil. It’s from one of my best holidays. It’s always sharp, yet yielding. *tap*
As you chat you scan across the small hallway and catch me watching you. I don’t look away. Why would I? I smile and as a reflex tap the pencil and spin it on my fingers. I follow your gaze. You’re watching my hand. So. I do it again. *tap*spin*
Giving your head a slight shake, you return attention to the call. But I want your attention. All of it. With my free hand, I run a finger along my clavicle. Across the top swell of my breast. My skin is warm with a slight sheen spread across my chest. An ache between my legs is growing. You’re looking now. You follow my finger back to the desk. *tap tap*spin*
I stand the pencil on point. Watch you watch as I gently thumb the eraser. Your lips part ever so, like you have something to say, nothing audible escapes. But intense regard on my hand then my face, then back again is enough to make me simmer with lust. I suck in a breath and squeeze my eyes shut. It is so hot in here.
Keeping the pencil on end I glide the body between my first two fingers. The pencil snug in the v of my soft fingers I glide my hand up and down. Slowly. Up and down. The look on your face is pained but awed. And that’s when I notice one hand has disappeared under your desk. A slight flex in your forearm is the only indication something might be happening.
I don’t change my tempo. I keep gliding the pencil between my fingers. From base to lead tip. Up and down. Brushing my thumb across the rubber. The tick in your forearm drums faster. And more than a trickle of sweat glides down the back of my knees making me cross my legs.
I’m so transfixed watching what your hand and what it might be doing under your desk, I miss my name whispered the first time. When I do hear it, we lock eyes. You wink. Cheeky. Fixed in your office listening to that very important call. I’m out here, desire knotted in my belly, feeling empty you’re still across the hall. Up and down. Slowly. Then faster. Then faster still. Up. Down. Flick my thumb on the top. Up. Down. And as your eyes dart from between my hand and my face, I lick my lips. Taste the sweet salty moisture pooled on my upper lip. Your arm flexes hard and the tattoo that snakes under your shirt sleeve quivers. You let out an audible, “fuck” and before I know what’s happened the pencil tip snaps and tumbles off the edge of the desk onto the padded carpet.
The spell is broken. In quick succession, I see you stand at your desk, adjust your jeans, unmute the significant meeting and give a hasty goodbye. Embarrassed and flustered I scurry around the desk to gather the pencil. Behind me, your long strides approach, I feel a blush move up the back of my neck, and my heartbeat thunders in my ears. I don’t know what comes next. But for one brief second, I envision you pushing my body down onto the desk and licking the summer flavour off the back of my legs. Instead, I feel the warmth of your body lean into mine. It feels almost burning there in the space between us. One hand slithers tightly around my waist pulling me flush against you – the other takes the pencil from my hand.
I’ll sharpen it later.