He’ll only break your heart.
You don’t see it yet, but perhaps in time you will. He will use your firm body as his fuck toy and when he is done with you, he will cast you aside. You don’t see it yet, but I have seen it many times before.
Most people don’t stop to think about the things I see from my lone post; the security desk in the lobby of a large commercial bank building. They don’t realize I hear their cell phone conversations as they wait, feet impatiently tapping for the elevator doors to open. They forget I am there when they walk by, gossiping about their co-workers, lovers, spouses. I have borne silent witness to the comings and goings of the occupants of this building, five days a week for 17 years. My job is to keep watch, and watch I do.
I watch the cubicle drones shuffle past, clutching their Starbucks in one hand and last shreds of hope in the other. I quietly observe the power players who parade the halls as if every square inch of marble and polished wood is their birthright. I watch the eager young faces showing up for work each morning, hungry to carve their niche in their industry. I let my gaze roam over the figures of the women in their pencil skirts, daring blouses and tight pants with unimaginably high heels. The kind of girls he tends to favor with his sleek attention.
But you are different.
When you enter the building each morning between 8 and 8:15 a.m., you smile warmly at me. Some days the smile is stretched thin, like a sheet of pressed, pink fruit being strained. But most days your smile is luminous. I envy the raindrops that cling to your hair in the winter, just as I long to be the sunlight that warms those glossy strands in the summer. Those silky strands that he runs through his fingers. The dark satin he wraps his fist around when he pulls you tightly to him as he fucks you.
I don’t know when it started. But I caught the all-too familiar exit strategy: he leaves via the stairwell exit, you follow a minute later, flushed and slightly disheveled. I have worked here longer than he has and I know his game well. Though he sickens me, there are times when my curiosity is too much and I stand just inside the stairwell door and listen. I listen to the soft grunts, the breathless moans, the disgusting names he uses on the most beautiful of women.
I have also heard their sobs, the ones he sheds like a dry skin, sloughed off on the stairs when someone new has caught his eye. I have seen the dull expressions on their faces for the weeks and months afterward as they mourn the loss of their own private poison. I have even gazed carefully aside, holding the door as they fled out into the street, dramatically streaming tears and leaving behind good jobs. I have watched them throw their careers on the altar of lustful disgrace.
Other than a general disregard for him and his wanton partners, I have never cared before. Other than the odd twinge of sympathy I have not been moved by these brief little displays.
But you are different.
When it comes to you, I can’t help myself. I ride the elevator immediately after you disembark, just so I can breathe in the scent of your perfume. I ride up all 23 floors, inhaling the scent and imagining the taste of your skin. I linger in the stairwell, my cock finding its way into my hand, my cum finding its way onto the floor, gripping myself tightly as I listen to him fuck you. I can tell the difference between your orgasms. I know the nuances of them, from the ragged sounds of vaginal release to the ones you have when he takes his mouth to your dripping bud. I know from experience the sedate brutality of his kiss. I can see how swollen your lips get afterwards. I watch you walk on unsteady legs, knowing your ass is bright red from his spankings. I know the effect he has on you: how wet he makes you. There was that day in April when he fingered you to orgasm as the elevator descended. You were so shaken you didn’t realize you left your panties on the floor of the elevator. They were damp with desire. They are mine now.
I never say a word. I just hold the door, push the call button for the elevator, greet you, talk about the weather, tell you to have a nice weekend. You have been here three years and have no idea how long I have worshipped you. You are in love with him. In that way that all young, inexperienced women have of falling for the wrong man, you have decided he is your very own Prince Charming. I know differently. And one day, when his sweet attentions are turned towards another, you will know too.
He is going to break your heart. And when he does, I am going to break him.
Leslie and Tina bustled back toward the elevator with their expensive, flavored coffees in hand. As they walked Tina gestured toward the elevators with her coffee. “…It was almost a year ago. Yeah, he worked for the investment firm up on the 19th floor. He was working late one night and the next morning they found him at the bottom of the elevator shaft.” Leslie gasped in horror as she turned her wide eyes to Tina. “No way! I heard about that on the news!” Tina nodded sagely. “Yup. Sad too, he was only 28 and such a hottie.” Their conversation was cut short by the bell that signaled the arrival of the elevator. “So what are you plans this weekend?” As Tina began her answer, she nodded a greeting to the security guard at his desk nearby. They stepped inside and Tina punched the button for their floor.