Title: Office Supplies 
Author: Sophia999x 
E-Mail: sophia999x@hotmail.com 
Category: DRR 
Rating: R - for serious suggestions and cursing 
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money, you'll have to take a 
number to collect if you want to waste your time 
trying. Characters are the property of CC and 1013. 
Their thoughts and actions are a product of my smut 
filled imagination. 
Summary: The next time you sharpen a pencil..... :P 


Basement Office, Hoover Building 

She was doing it again, sharpening another damn pencil. 
They had a stack of unsolved cases that had to be 
closed out before the end of the week and she was 
sharpening another fucking pencil. If he didn't know 
any better, he'd have thought she had been promoted to 
Official Pencil Sharpener for the Bureau. All she had 
to do was reach up and pull one down from the ceiling, 
he had suggested as much. Her response came in the 
form of an icy stare that silenced him once and for 
all on the subject. So, for the third morning this 
week, he sat back, gripping his favorite baseball in 
annoyance, and resigning himself to watching her 
sharpen pencils again, listening to the grinding of 
the sharpener's blade against the pencil lead. He did 
have to admit though, that was one lucky pencil. 

He watched silently, almost voyeuristically, as she 
made this morning's selection. She started by setting 
the pencils out in front of her. Once they were all 
laid out in a neat little row on her desk, like 
suitors waiting to be picked for the dance, she 
silently played her fingers over them. Every now and 
then rolling one of them from side to side with a 
fingertip, almost teasingly, seductively. Then she 
made her choice. Leaning down, a little too close to 
the desk than was necessary, she selected the lucky 
pencil for grinding in her sharpener this morning, 
but not right away it would seem. She picked up the 
pencil, today's was a particularly thick one (funny 
he didn't think they had such thick pencils in 
supply - absently wondering if it would fit in her 
hole), and holding it at the base of one end, she 
ran her fingers slowly across the length of it, 
playfully twirling it, testing the sharpness of 
it's tip against her palm, then enveloping it's 
thickness in her hand, twisting and turning, 
sliding it back and forth. 

Satisfied with her selection, she reached across her 
desk and placed the thick, blunt tip of the pencil on 
the lip of the sharpener's hole, pausing while she 
took a deep breath, then slowly slipped it in. Before 
the blades could clench the pencil in their 
razor-sharp embrace, she pulled the pencil out a 
little ways, then slipped it back in quickly, and 
then out again, and then in and then out. Watching 
her torturous handling, he pitied the poor pencil, 
certain there was some law on the books she was in 
violation of, he just couldn't quite concentrate at 
the moment. He watched, mesmerized, as she pulled the 
pencil out all the way this time, lifting it up to 
the light to examine the partially shaved head, and 
caught his breath as she reached up with her free 
hand and pinched the lead tip, wiping off any excess 
shavings that clung to it. She frowned then, it would 
seem that because of the pencil's thickness, it was 
going to require a little extra effort on her part, 
to sharpen it. With a look of determination that he 
had become all too familiar with, she once again 
reached across the length of her desk and placed the 
pencil into the sharpener's hole. With an almost 
imperceptible grunt, she slid the pencil in again, 
this time giving it an extra push and twist at the 
same time. She continued to work the pencil in the 
sharpener's hole, until the blades and the pencil 
caught and settled into a churning,  grinding rhythm, 
twirling between her fingers, the sharpener slowly 
swallowing the pencil's head. 

And then she was done. She pulled the pencil out, the 
sharpener's motor grinding to an exhaustive stop. She 
brought the sharpened pencil up to her lips to blow 
away any remaining shavings from the tip. 

Still blowing, she turned and noticed her partner's 
stare, her eyes widening slightly, "John, are you 
okay?" 

John blinked and looked up, a bit embarrassingly, from 
the pencil to Monica, "Yeah, why?" 

"Well, you're all wet." 

"What?" He froze, not daring to look down at his lap. 

"Your ball John." 

"Huh?" 

"Your ball John, you dropped your baseball and spilled 
your coffee on your desk. Your desk is all wet. I'll go 
get some towels." 

John jumped up from his chair before the spilled coffee 
could drip onto his pants and further draw attention to 
his flustered state. 

Monica laid the one-lucky-son-of-a-bitch pencil down on 
her desk and walked towards the door. She stopped all 
of a sudden, turned back to her still distressed 
partner, and with a disapproving shake of her head, 
"Geez John, didn't your mother ever tell you not to 
play with your balls in the house?" 

A startled John looked up at her, just barely catching 
sight of a wicked grin as she walked out the door. 

~ fin ~