[ad_1]

There’s an hour before lunch and my notifications go off again.

“What would you do if I suddenly got out of that elevator?”

It’s the group chat. The one with another co-worker in it. It’s the chat I write in when I can not stop thinking of you but need to regulate my behaviour and pull myself together.

My composure is already in tatters. I’m minding the front desk and I’m trying my damned hardest to get the wondered of ‘The Secretary’ out of my mind. I try to ground my hands and feet and banish the kinky wondered of me begging you to take control over me.

Every inch of my body craves submission to you, how the fuck do I answer that question. I’ve bitten my lip so many times today thinking about you that I suspect I’ll begin bleeding any minute.

I know exactly how my body would respond if you got out of that lift. I’m already far too wet after just fantasising about you. If you appeared right there and then I’d have to get up immediately out of fear of soaking thrihgh into the reception chair, and exposing this dirty secret.

In a moment of bratty confidence I’d demand you get back into that elevator. I’d message our co-worker to mind the desk and say it was an emergency. I had to leave immediately. It would be. The two of us, in the same space, able to touch, after all this sexual tension would be an OHS risk.

Surely I’d fumble over my words with some Freudian slips, trying to retain the last vestiges of professionalism.

“I’ve been desperately hoping you’d come. Please can we go down. I’m all yours, just give me one moment.”

While I wait for my replacement, I pray to every God in the universe that my flustered expression will just read as stress, rather than primal, unabashed arousal.

In the lift, the floating sensation makes me want to preemptively groan, thinking about feeling you inside of me. The anticipation is sending concentric waves of arousal through my body. The glimpse of you tangibly there has sustained the most intense desire I’ve ever fathomed to be touched. To touch myself. To touch you.

My nipples are so hard that they’re no match for the flimsy lining of my bra. I’m covered in goosebumps and as I stroke my arm I can feel every fine, invisible hair standing to attention. I try to take a deep breath but it comes out as a desperate, primal moan.

The doors open.

“So what are you going to do”, you ask again, smirking at my utter neediness.

“Absolutely anything you want me to do”, I murmur, transfixed.

“Mmm, the pleasure would be all mine”.

NSFW: yes

[ad_2]