(continued from ‘sex at work 1: an office fantasy?’)
I left J in my office and went to the ladies room. My reflection in the mirror was what I expected — a bit rosy-cheeked, but otherwise okay.
Okay… now what? I thought. It’s late, the building is nearly empty, and J is in my office…
Truth #1: I was anxious about the idea of screwing around in my office, but not because of the risk of being ‘caught.’ We’re both grown adults in a long term relationship, he’s not my coworker, and to the best of my knowledge, there’s no explicit policy about in-office shenanigans with non-employee partners. While I’m sure it would be frowned upon, the worst that could happen is that I’d be embarrassed.
Truth #2: My nervousness was about what to do and how to do it. On my home turf, I know what works and where, and if something doesn’t work, there’s the freedom, space, and familiarity to control the situation and move on to something else. In the office? Not so much. Fucking in the office is incredibly hot in theory, but in practice, there’s limited space, uncomfortable furniture, and no means to clean up afterward.
Truth #3: Despite Truth #1 and #2, I knew if I didn’t take advantage of the opportunity, I’d regret it.
I hiked up my dress and looked down — a quick underwear check confirmed what I suspected. They weren’t quite the going-for-it/hot-office-fuck type. They were modest, plain, and ugly — not the tiny lacy things that inspire confidence in the wearer. I slipped my panties down to my ankles, wrestled them off my sandaled-feed, and stuffed them in my purse.
When I returned to my office, J wasn’t where I left him. He was seated in my chair behind the desk. I locked the door behind me and poured myself a little more whiskey. “I want my seat back.”
J moved to get up, but I stopped him. “No, stay where you are. I didn’t tell you to move.”
After draining my cup, I came around to his side of the desk, straddled his legs, and sat on his thighs — my seat.
He was still for me while I admired him, reorienting my hands to the feeling of his flesh. I pulled off his shirt and touched every inch of skin I could reach, getting reacquainted with the contours of the muscles in his shoulders, arms, and chest. Burying my face in his neck, I inhaled him — his scent is so familiar, but it still excites me in a way that feels foreign.
His scent, his skin, his warmth — it changes me. When I’m in his orbit, I am more graceful, more commanding, more sure. It’s not that he makes me confident — that isn’t it. It’s that he makes me want him so much that I forget I’m unsure. When I want him and he’s in my reach, everything else fades into the background.
And now he was in my reach, and I wanted him. I claimed the kiss he promised me and took many, many more — they’re all mine anyway. I pressed myself against him, scratching his skin, tasting his mouth, wanting more. His cock was hard and constrained beneath his jeans and I wanted it, too. My boy, my kisses, my cock — all of it was mine.
I hopped up on the desk and motioned for him to come forward. Leaning down from my perch, I allowed him to kiss my neck while I reached down, unzipped his jeans, and pulled his cock free.
It stuck out obscenely from the open fly, and in that moment, I was struck by its impropriety. His cock was inappropriate for the office. It was lewd and indecent and altogether unprofessional.
So was he — out of place, but perfect — a bare-chested ink-stained man sitting uncomfortably in a respectable office chair where he wasn’t supposed to be, but exactly where I wanted him.
With heat rising in my cheeks, my anxiety had faded. It had been replaced with one part whiskey and three parts want.
I leaned back on my hands, stretched out, and rested my feet in his lap, playfully nudging the head of his cock with my shoe. I liked the way it looked — exposed, underfoot, and pinned against his stomach.
Muffled sounds down the hall made us both jump. I recognized the noise. J did not.
“The door is locked, right?” he whispered.
“Yep.” After a short silence, the sounds were closer and a bit more distinct. J looked askance and raised his eyebrows as if to ask me if I was sure. “That’s the cleaning lady,” I explained, “she pushes a big cart.”
We were both very still as we listened. There were a few small noises — metallic jingling, some shuffling — and then the distinct sound of a door being shut.
“Keys?” he whispered, fumbling with his fly, “Does she have keys?”
I nodded. “Of course she has keys… how do you think she cleans inside the offices?”
When J reached for his shirt, I shook my head ‘no.’ He sat back in the chair and I smiled, but J did not.
I was almost certain the cleaning woman wouldn’t come in. I put my wastebasket outside the door earlier in the evening — it was a signal we didn’t need (or want) her to enter our office. It wasn’t formally codified, but it was usually respected. The cleaning woman would see the wastebasket, empty it, and roll her cart on to the next office… probably.
But J didn’t know that — he didn’t know about the wastebasket signal. I’m sure some part of him realized I wouldn’t put him in a position where he might be exposed (nor would I put anyone else in a position where they might be exposed to him). But he couldn’t be sure, and I did little to assuage his fears. Instead, steeled with whiskey, want, and the pleasure of impropriety, I found myself enjoying his slight panic and confusion.
“Baby, don’t worry…” I leaned down, whispering in his ear. “I’ll hide your cock…. I’ll sit on it and she won’t even know it’s there.”
I spread my legs and pulled up my skirt to show him I wasn’t wearing panties.
(will be continued…)
image based on “Helen Gurley Brown 1964” (1964) by John Bottega, (cropped, framed). Donated to the Library of Congress; no known copyright restrictions.