A little while ago, I took a photo that immediately gave me an idea for a story. The image itself was nothing remarkable, but I was at work at the time, and something about the setting sparked a series of very interesting thoughts…some of which I’ve tried to capture here…

There’s no point getting tangled up in an office fling unless you’re really going to have fun with it. That’s what Gwen told me anyway, the first time she pulled me into the third-floor stationery cupboard halfway through a sleepy Tuesday afternoon and guided my fingers inside her cunt.

And she was right. There are risks inherent to any workplace romance, casual or serious; risks which have to be respected. From complicated power dynamics to petty interdepartmental politics, there’s no shortage of minefields to navigate, and one or two of those are bound to blow up in your face if you’re not careful. Sometimes even if you are careful. So you might as well enjoy yourself while it lasts. Really go to town, y’know?

Gwen hardly needed much encouragement on that front. If she wasn’t sucking me off in a toilet cubicle with half the Accounts department traipsing past outside, she was slipping a remote control into my palm as we filed into a meeting and silently writhing in her seat with each casual flick of my thumb. We fucked on every surface imaginable – even our fussy, humourless MD’s solid oak desk, late one night, with stacks of paper piled precariously around us, threatening to fly everywhere each time I slammed my cock deep inside her.

It was reckless – there’s no getting away from that – but each sweaty, breathless fuck just drew us in deeper. Upped the stakes. Gwen virtually stopped wearing knickers to work. “I want your tongue on my clit and your cock in my cunt,” she said, as we pushed through the double doors into the lobby one morning. “And I want them on my terms. Underwear only gets in the way.” She got no argument from me on that one.

For my part, there was no inappropriate, filthy, depraved thought that didn’t pass through my mind as I tapped away quietly at my keyboard. I dreamt of spreading her out on the boardroom table in front of all the directors; of hearing their desperate groans and watching them inch forward, ready to shoot over her tits and stomach. I mentally picked out colleagues I’d want to see her with – and I swear she could read my fucking mind, because it was never long before she was flirting with the guy or woman in question, right in front of me, glancing over every now and then just to make sure I knew exactly what she was doing. And why.

That’s what Gwen was like – nothing happened by chance…which is what made it so exquisitely enjoyable when I got to turn the tables. Like all the best traditions, I’m not really sure how it started. We’d calmed down a bit by then, I guess; she’d been given more responsibility and I was out a lot, visiting clients, so we needed something to kick us back into gear. To switch things up a bit.

Dress-down in our office was only supposed to happen on a Friday, but I’ve never been great at sticking to the rules, and my numbers were solid enough for management to cut me a little slack with that kind of thing. By that stage, non-verbal signals had become an essential – and exciting – form of foreplay, especially during working hours. A raised eyebrow here, a casual uncrossing of stockinged legs there, and we each knew instantly what the other wanted. It was call-and-response, without a single word spoken.

For the most part, Gwen paid scant attention to what I wore – she’s not the sort of girl who swoons over a man in a suit – and the jeans themselves were nothing special; if they stood out at all, it was because during the week, I was the only one wearing them. Maybe it was as simple as that: on a Friday, they couldn’t have been less interesting, but in that regular sea of monochrome suits, they were like a red rag to a chronically horny bull – one who’s always looking for an excuse to charge.

Either way, it took no more than a couple of sartorially lazy weekdays before I realised the effect they had on her. The involuntary quirk at the corner of her mouth when she looked at me; a hungry half-smile that promised more than just sweet kisses in the park at lunchtime.

Much more, as it turned out. The when and the how weren’t terribly important at first, but if I breezed into the office on a weekday morning in my scuffed Levis and rolled-up shirt sleeves, we both understood that at some point during the working day she’d end up on her knees in front of me, out in the emergency stairwell, my cock butting the back of her throat.

That was reason enough for me to turn it into a game – and like every game, it had rules. First, some structure. Sticking to the same day each week allowed for some build-up. A bit of anticipation. Certainly no room for doubt: jeans on a Thursday only meant one thing, and Gwen didn’t need to see the bulge in the front of them to know that.

It went without saying that targets were also required. Gwen thrived on challenges – at work and in bed – so while she took to the weekly task of draining my cock with aplomb, adding performance incentives to the mix only made her more determined. “Make me come in less than, hmm, seven minutes,” I’d say, “or you won’t get fucked tonight. And you want to get fucked, don’t you love?”

“Fuck you,” was the standard response. Then she’d slide her lips all the way down from tip to base, and my eyes would practically roll back in my head as I fought to stop myself thrusting jerkily into her. The look of triumph she gave me each time I lost control and filled her mouth was smug enough to be infuriating and arousing in equal measure.

That’s the thing about targets though: they move. The next week it would be six minutes. Then five. And when she failed, which of course sometimes she did, that only made the evening even more enjoyable. I’d hold the tip of my cock against her slick cunt and stroke it slowly, my other hand on her stomach to keep her pinned in place. “You want it, don’t you? I can feel how much you want it – deep inside you. Well you should have tried harder earlier, shouldn’t you? Now you just have to…ahh…just have to…watch…me…come…”

The look on her face afterwards, when I finger-fucked my fresh jizz into her flaring cunt, was always worth it. Almost as satisfying as sending her back to the office when she did succeed with cum dripping down her cleavage or just smeared across her tits. Some weeks I made it harder to hide. I’d grab a fistful of hair and hold her still while I coated her face, not caring if the odd ribbon splashed up into her hair. She’d swear and growl at me, then scurry off to the Ladies’ as fast as she could, slipping in to scrub herself clean.

That fury would simmer and bubble for a week, then get unleashed on my cock the following Thursday. On those occasions, there was never any question of her missing the target time. I couldn’t have stopped her if I’d tried.

Eventually I moved on from that firm, and Gwen and I drifted apart shortly afterwards. When I started my new job, I was surprised to discover that half the company wore jeans to work – it was one of those trendy media agencies, with beanbags in the corner and a coffee bar on every floor. Somehow I could never bring myself to join them. I guess it goes to show that hotness really is all about context; without Gwen on her knees in front of me, they were just a pair of scruffy old Levis.

Frayed and faded. No pop to their buttons.

And where’s the fun in that?

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1 Response to Semiotics

  1. Pi says:

    Such a beautifully written story ~ read this and the guest post you shared, both immensely enjoyable. 👌👍

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