Risk, by Hannah Smythe (a guest post special!)

Last week, I wrote this piece of filth about messy office blow jobs, blue jeans, and the consequences of failing to beat the clock. I knew it was the kind of story that wouldn’t resonate with everyone, but might have a fairly delicious effect on those who did enjoy it. And apparently I was right.

Eight days after posting it, I received an email from Hannah Smythe, better known to most people reading this as @confess_hannah. She’d rewritten the story from the female character’s perspective, and wanted to know whether I’d be interested in reading it. That was not one of the more difficult questions I’ve ever had to answer.

Hannah was kind enough to let me share her story here. It’s called Risk, and like its author, it’s effing hot…


It started on one of those dull afternoons in the office (a Tuesday… I think). You know the sort of afternoon I’m speaking of: where people seem to be doing everything and nothing all at once, where I’d be neither needed nor missed. Apart from being a fairly notable cliché, the stationary cupboard fuck in the otherwise lazy afternoon was nothing to write home about, but it relieved the feeling of twisted lust manifesting in my cunt. I think that was obvious by how easily he slid inside me. Yet it seemed convenient, playful and a chance to make the endless meetings, progress reports and budget forecasting a little more bearable.

But deep down it was really the risk. The risk made it fucking irresistible. The risk of pulling my skirt up to reveal I was bare underneath, as he filled his cup with coffee by the kettle. The same cup which, as I asked if anyone would like a drink three days later, I’d return not full of coffee but stuffed with the underwear I’d removed. The risk of having him at the back of my throat in the toilets, as I hear Jen and Christine talk about their Saturday plans, trying to ensure they don’t hear me choke as he thrusts inside my hungry mouth that little bit rougher. Or the risk of being bent over in his toilet, of each quickening pound increasing the sound of his hips slamming into my arse, all whilst hearing Steve take a piss (and wondering whether his cock is as fucking deliciously awful as his harsh post-presentation questioning of the newbies).

I still remember fucking him on Mark’s desk, a desk I’d fucked on a handful of times before, albeit a year or so ago. I knew Mark went home early on a Wednesday, as his wife worked late. I knew his desk was strong.  I knew he liked to be called worthless, pathetic and embarrassingly small while I sat on his face as he lay across his most recent papers. I didn’t tell him that though, as we snuck into the office I knew would be empty: I just let him fuck me. I recall hoping that Mark’s wife was perhaps away, or ill, and Mark would discover our risky dirty secret and watch my cunt get pounded by another man on his desk: a man who could make me come harder and faster than he ever could. Oh yes, Mark would love that.

It wasn’t until later – months later – that I began to feel that gut-fluttering urge to revisit our arrangement. He was out of the office fairly often, and I was trying to navigate a promotion; desperate for a distraction, yet almost too busy to notice one. It was a Thursday. I think he’d been there on occasion throughout the week, but he hadn’t been so present, so obvious. It took me a few weeks to figure out the source of his shifted confidence. It was the jeans he had begun to wear, and the shirt sleeves rolled up exposing his forearms, replacing his usual suit. It wasn’t Friday, and his distressed denim was immediately visible amongst the monochrome, as he leaned back and eyed those around him.

I knew he was imagining fucking at least one of them – likely more – as he shifted his glance to follow my path through the office. I also knew he would struggle to ignore me, as my walks through his floor were now a rarity. His demeanour was cocky, understated and fucking delicious. I imagine he saw the corners of my mouth twist into a smile, all the while imagining his hands and forearms holding me down over the desk in the boardroom. He must have done, because in the days following he always seemed to find me, or catch my eye, or not alter the direction of his gaze as I uncrossed and recrossed my legs to increase the pressure between my thighs.

He first caught me leaving the bathroom, after a quick silent wank whilst fantasising about lying on that boardroom table, legs spread wide, in front of the guys I always catch glancing slightly too far down my blouse. I imagined them stood behind the windows in the corridors, tugging at their hard, desperate cocks. He was there too, but just one of the crowd.

No words passed his lips, but his eyes screamed ‘follow me’. So I did. Around the corner, through the door, into the stairwell, before I unbuttoned his jeans and fell to my knees. We both knew I had to be quick and as my spit fell from my mouth, down my chest, I felt him empty into the back of my throat.

He glanced at his watch.

‘Eight minutes…not bad. Let’s see if you can do better next time.’

And he disappeared down the corridor.

It wasn’t until the following Thursday that he reappeared in the office, and we slipped out into the stairwell. Seven minutes later, I was hit with the warmth of success – alongside the twisted sting of being reminded what he’d inflict upon me if I missed my targets.

I began to wait in the stairwell for him each Thursday, kneeling, and as I heard him round the corner my mouth would be open in desperation as he fiddled with the fly on his jeans. I was there to perform, in the narrow window determined by him. He always was obsessed with the challenge, bettering those before him. I imagine his sheer numbers allow for management to turn a blind eye to his ever more casual attire.

I didn’t always have an excuse to be so smug. There were days where I failed his challenge, and (although I didn’t admit it) those days were the fucking hottest. He would spread my legs and come all over my pants, smearing my inner thighs and stockings with his thick, warm, sticky mess. Occasionally, he’d do up his jeans, and I’d follow him into a toilet cubicle where he’d spray jizz over my exposed cunt, and finger fuck me with my pants in my mouth until I was a writhing sobbing mess. Perhaps it was what I’d been looking for all along; all that time I was trying to satisfy myself with the risky fucks.

But last Thursday I truly failed his little game. I was down to three minutes after a stellar performance the week before. I knew he was frustrated for not being able to hold back, but I could also feel the glowing, tingly sense of achievement that he’d made it harder for me the next time around. As three minutes passed, and he grabbed my hair and tugged it back to take in my messy, dishevelled appearance, he undid the top two buttons of my blouse and came all over my front- a streak from my tits, across my left cheek and into my unkempt hair.

‘Don’t you fucking dare clean that off.’

And I watched the flash of blue denim disappear as he turned and vacated the stairwell.

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