Tag Archives: office sex

Sexting

I couldn’t help myself.  Once we started down that path, there was no way I could stop.  I looked around the office, eyeing the clock and glancing back at my cell phone.  Your text messages were staring back at me, tiny little characters of sin that my body could not help responding to.  I checked the schedule, at least 30 minutes before the next client was due for his appointment.  I fought with myself for a moment, trying to decide if I had the courage to follow through with the command you had sent me just moments before.

“Go to an empty office and close the door.  Remove your panties and tuck them into your purse.   Run your fingers all around that beautiful pussy until you cum.  Once you have made yourself cum, do it again.  Return to your desk and text me a picture.  Leave your panties in your purse for the remainder of the day.”

Oh shit.  What had I gotten myself into? Even as I stressed, I knew I was going to do it.  I couldn’t have said no to you even if I wanted to.  And I did not want to.  I scooted back my chair and left my cubicle, trying to look casual with my purse slung over my shoulder and a file in my hand.  I went into the senior attorney’s office.  He was out to lunch with a client and I knew from past history that particular client’s lunches took place at the bar and ran long.  I shut the door, my stomach fluttering and my crotch already wet with anticipation.  I sat behind the desk and whipped out my phone.  I rolled my red lace panties down to my ankles and snapped a picture and sent it.  I stuffed my panties in my purse and hiked up my pencil skirt.  The skirt was tight around my hips as I threw a leg over the arm of the desk chair.  I swiveled the chair away from the door as my eager fingers began stroking.  I used my finger to spread my wetness around my slit, sliding over my slippery clit and making myself gasp.  I was amazed at how wet I was.  We had been texting back and forth for a while this morning and my pussy was more than ready for some action.  I teased my clit some more as I greedily stuffed the two middle fingers of my other hand into my pussy.  I tried to go slow, in and out in slow strokes like you told me to.  But it wasn’t long before I was thrusting hard, my palm making slapping noises against my wet clit.  I could feel my arousal running down my ass and I arched up hard, cumming into my own palm as I panted and gasped your name.

Remembering my instructions, I kept stroking and thrusting, adding a finger in my ass for added measure.  The second orgasm was even stronger, my body clenching down on my fingers, cum running out of me and leaving a wet spot on my skirt that I hoped my jacket would cover.

I sat there for a moment, shaking with the aftermath of an incredibly strong orgasm, before reaching for my phone again.  I hastily snapped a picture, taking just enough time to make sure it was in focus.  I know how much you hate blurry photos of my pussy.  I stood up on shaky legs, pulled my skirt back down and reached for a kleenex to wipe the moisture off my hand and phone.  After a detour to the ladies’ room, I went back to my desk and took my phone out again.  The photo was a good one.  My pussy spread wide, white cream running in ribbons from my slit down past my ass.  You were going to love this.  I felt a wicked smile spread across my lips as I hit send.

 Originally published on February 16, 2013 – Copyright 2013 CJ Riordan

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Confessions: The Administrative Assistant

It has been weighing on my mind lately. The tension building up inside me until I feel like I could scream. Making me so nervous I jump at the slightest noise. I walk around the office on eggshells certain that everyone who looks at me knows. They look in my eyes and in a heartbeat they can see the truth in my gaze. The truth of my lust.

They know how strong my desire is for you. They know that my attentive devotion to my job is more than just the need to be a great assistant. That it is because of my need to attend to, and be near, you.

Somehow when they look at my face, they see the things I have done. The subtle, erotic things.

Like the way I press my crotch against the edge of your desk when I lean over it to review a document with you. Or how when you walk past me in the copy room and no one is there, I grab my nipples through my blouse. Twist them. Pinch them hard as I think of your commanding hands on my willing body.

Or maybe they hear it in the sultry edge of my voice when I answer the phone; a dark, satin caress of sound that flicks across your ears like my tongue on your skin.

But it goes so much deeper than that.

Like how I read your emails and look at your cell phone bills, just so I can know what is going on in your life. How I listen to every conversation you have; every interaction with colleagues, clients, staff members. I take in every detail about you so I can know you better. So I can feel close to you.

Do they know about the time I sat in your leather chair, looking out over cityscape below and slipping my hand under my skirt? Do they know I bit my lip until it bled to keep from screaming out my release as I fingered my pussy to orgasm right there in your chair while you were at a luncheon?

I wonder if they know about the scarf? The one you thought you lost. You didn’t lose it, by the way. It’s in my bedroom, tucked away in a drawer. When I am lonely at night, I take it out and wrap it around me as I reach for my favorite vibrator. I smell your scent, drawing your essence into me as I tighten it around my neck, the way I wish your hands would hold me. I fuck myself hard, the smell of you, the feel of your scarf against my skin getting me so aroused, I cum like mad.

I haven’t used it in a while. The last time I did, I jerked that scarf so tight around my neck that I passed out.

Do they know about the conference room table? How I bent myself forward over that long, cool expanse of glass and fucked myself with your “Board Chair Appreciation 2011” Award?

Oh I tried to resist. I waited for two weeks for the urge pass. But then one night, while working late and compiling records for a client, the urge became too strong. I called out your name. Face pressed into the cold glass, I shoved the thin tip of that award into my ass while I rubbed myself and came in a stream down my legs. All for you.

And you don’t even know.

But the rest of them? The other workers in the office? I can’t shake the feeling they know. It haunts me. But my love for you keeps me coming to work every day in spite of their knowing looks. My love keeps me here by your side.

Your husband has no idea how lucky he is.

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Security

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.

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