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I can’t stop staring at Jonah from accounting’s fingers.

I mean, they’re just fingers, right? Attached to a perfectly typical hand and an unremarkable arm and a man who by all measures of attractiveness is just … well … normal.

I’ve been working at this business for almost two years and I’ve never even met Jonah from accounting (and yes, that’s what I’m calling him because I don’t know his last name) before today. Sure, we’ve been in some of the same email chains and I’m sure I’ve seen him filling up his water bottle at the fountain or eating his lunch in the breakroom, but I’ve never actually met him. I’m not sure I would have even recognized him if it wasn’t for the ID badge he wears on his pocket.

And now that I have?

I can’t stop staring at his fingers. They’re huge. His entire hands are, really. They’re enormous and calloused and rugged and … I want those fingers in my pussy.

I feel a throb between my legs, inner muscles clenching on nothing, like my cunt is already imagining what it would be like to be impaled on two, maybe three of those thick digits. Good lord, they’re enormous, even one would give me the friction I need to …

What the fuck is wrong with me? I swear on my employee-handbook I’m not usually this much of a freak, ogling my poor, innocent coworkers.

I’m just sitting here, supposedly listening to Carol from accounting talk about the new accounts receivable process, while also privately fantasizing about a man in ill-fitted khakis who’s just minding his own damn company. There must be a hundred and fifty people in this training room, and I’ve just so happened to sit next to the one with the catcher’s mitt fingers I want in my pants.

I’m so busy gawking at those fingers that it takes me a horrible, life-ruining amount of time to realize I’m not being as sneaky as I think I am.

Oh my god.

I look up from Jonah’s hands to discover him staring at me. He has one eyebrow cocked, clearly confused about what exactly I was doing staring at his hands, and he looks from me to his fingers and back again like he’s trying to figure it out. I can’t help but reflexively follow his gaze down to where his hands rest on the table.

And then those damned fingers flex and I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning.

A sinkhole. A portal to hell. An earthquake to bring the whole building down around me. Anything, anything to get out of this goddamn meeting would be a blessing.

For the last ten minutes of the training I stare straight ahead, pretend I’m listening to Carol, pray to any Gods who might be listening that this will all turn out to be a dream and I’ll wake up any moment now.

And still, those hands are there. Stretched out in front of him now, clasped together, big fingers intertwined, fucking taunting me.

I flee the meeting room the moment the presentation is finished and make a beeline for the nearest bathroom. It’s blessedly a single room with a locked door rather than a long line of stalls, and once I’m inside I’m mindless. I lean against the wall, pull my pants roughly to my knees and shove my hands between my legs. I’m not gentle with myself, plunging three fingers deep before drawing them back out to circle around my clit. Over and over – hard, punishing, rough, the way I’d want Jonah to handle me. I come with my other fist pressed against my mouth, thinking of large male hands, baggy khakis and a raised eyebrow.

The shame comes almost immediately after, and as I clean up I wonder if I truly have lost my mind. At least I didn’t do it sitting on the toilet. I have a little dignity.

It’s not until later, when I’ve slunk away from my desk at five on the dot, when I’m walking to my car still flushed and a little sweaty and thinking about what toys I have at home that will do the job better than my hand did, that I realize I’m not alone in the parking lot.

“Susie,” a voice calls from behind me. “Wait up.”

I know who it is before I turn around.

Jonah, one hand raised, coming straight toward me.

NSFW: yes

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