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.



Filed under Erotica

41 responses to “Security

  1. Derek

    Succinct , impressive, intriguing…

  2. night owl

    You had me on the edge of my seat.
    Well, you would have, but since I was laying down, you had me on the edge of the bed.
    No, wait, that doesn’t sound right.
    You had me from the first line. It is magnificent.
    I’ll tell you, I don’t fall for those kinds of guys anymore, but it doesn’t hurt any less when they’re sweet and kind and loving and gentle and their only sin is they just don’t love you back. And you can’t blog about it because they read your blog and you just don’t want them to know how damn vulnerable you are, how much you ache, how often you cry.
    Anyway, I loved this.

    • As long as I have you on the edge, darling, I’m happy.

    • And it sounds to me like perhaps there is a thought in your comment that needs some exploration. πŸ™‚ sending hugs.

      • night owl

        I explore too much – it is my greatest strength and my grandest flaw. I am undecided as to whether I want to block him from my life long enough for the wound to heal over, or if I want to continually pick at the scab until it’s no more than a faint pin dot of residual heartblood. I vacillate daily, hourly.
        Thanks for the hugs.

        I love writing to you. You make me up my game. πŸ˜‰

      • I can relate to your dilemma my friend. That is the curse of being one of those deeply analytical, deeply emotional type women. πŸ˜‰ Do what is right for you.

        πŸ˜‰ Back atcha sista!

      • night owl

        What is right at the moment is to love him as much as is allowed. Tomorrow I might change my mind. It’s a woman’s priority.

      • Sounds like a plan to me. Hang in there and remember there is nothing more unbreakable than the spirit of a strong woman. πŸ™‚

      • Wonderful story, He, has a passion tripped memory. An ache and wanton, a daily reminder of she of a desire he may never get to have. Poor night owl.

      • Thank you. I love how insightful your comments are!

      • night owl

        Most of the time, this night owl is grateful to feel love at all. There were many years that I did not. A little bit of unrequited passion is not such a bad thing when the alternative is blank, empty sameness. I do appreciate the sympathy, though. Thank you.
        I do love a good passion tripped memory.

      • As do I. There are times when passion-tripled memories are the blankets that keep my soul warm.

  3. night owl

    This is me again, having forgotten to check the ‘notify me of follow-up comments’ box. πŸ™‚

  4. Dear C.R.,
    I really enjoyed this read. Great Post.

  5. Whoa! Fabulous turn of events. Great descriptions.

    • I’m sorry, what did you say? I was completely distracted by your gravatar! πŸ™‚

      Thank you for the compliment, I am always happy when my readers use exclamation points in their comments. πŸ˜€

  6. Ohhhhh, this was good… πŸ™‚

  7. Your writing humbles me. You are a rare talent love

  8. anonymous

    I can not even come close to saying what is going through my mind…your stories are vivid, turbulent and oh so sexy!…thank you:) (sigh*)

  9. Pingback: Author’s Note: The Fickle Vagaries of Pussy | Cliterary Review

  10. Superb blog! Do you have any tips for aspiring writers?
    I’m hoping to start my own blog soon but I’m a little lost on everything.
    Would you advise starting with a free platform like WordPress or go for
    a paid option? There are so many options out there that I’m completely overwhelmed
    .. Any tips? Thank you!

    • Thank you! πŸ™‚ I’m glad you enjoyed it. The only advice I can give is advice I need to follow more myself! Write. As much and as often as you can. Write about anything and everything, just get into the rhythm of writing. Try different voices, different perspectives, and don’t be afraid to challenge yourself. And have fun.

      As far as blogs go, I always say free is better. But it is your choice. Some folks will commit to something more intently when there’s a pricetag involved.

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