Mad Men were onto something

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Things got out of hand rather quickly, as they say.

I really never meant to be on my back on a desk in an empty office, asking him to fuck me harder, harder. I had never had sex in any place of business, much less my own place of business.

It is a thing from another time, like train travel, handkerchiefs and phone booths. It went out with drinking at lunch, a 9 – 5 workday and smoking in your office. People simply don’t do it anymore, no more than they ask a coworker if he is gay or tell the receptionist she has a nice rack.

People don’t have sex in their workplace anymore. It’s just not a thing.

But work is not a Monday through Friday thing anymore, either. The world wants what it wants on demand, 24/7, and that means there are people who work on the weekend.

There are a few, like myself, who are in their offices alone. Every Saturday I do my work, by myself, with only the cleaning lady for an hour. And the internet. And my cell phone.

My cell phone proved to be my downfall. A device unheard of in the days of Don Draper, when office sex was de rigueur, as commonplace as a completely male board of directors or calling an employee “sweetie.” I have never worked in such an environment, it really never occurred to me that I would be at work, standing while a man kneeled in front of me sucking my clit into his mouth, making my knees buckle.

I had told him to come see me, had even mentioned I was alone at work. There was an attraction there, that was undeniable. But we are both adults, in control (theoretically) of our bodies and our sex drives; we would not fuck at my office, that was a given.

I unlocked the door, we moved toward the back of the office, out of sight of anyone who may have seen him come it. A few kisses, some small talk.

“Aren’t you worried someone might see us?” he asked. I realized it was a healthy fear; we moved deeper into the building. I could feel myself getting turned on by the smell of him, his nearness, the maleness of him, work rough hands on my face, looking me dead in the eyes, pulling me forward. When he pressed himself to me I could feel his hardon on my belly, it jumped at my touch through his jeans.

On the edges of my brain, I could hear my breath quicken, I felt myself lead him to an unused room, an office complete with phone and printer, desk and chairs, but devoid of people. We stood, kissing, hands exploring each other.

“Will you, will you let me?” I didn’t answer, I didn’t really know what he meant. What I knew was this – his tongue in my mouth, his fingers in my hair, his arms around me. Then he was down, on the floor, on his knees, pushing my skirt up, my thighs apart. His mouth on me, sucking sucking sucking, truly eating me, like a starving man at a feast. My legs starting going, refusing to support me, he laid me down on the floor, his tongue never leaving my pussy, his fingers opening me up, fucking me as he licked, sucked my clit. He dived into me, I could feel myself slipping away, gushing onto his face.

Then he is kissing my mouth, his fingers still inside me, I can taste my juices on his tongue, his face is slick against mine. He wants me, it both frightens and entices me how much of me he wants – my heart I’m afraid. He demands nothing, but he wants, he wants. He looks at me as he feels inside me, learning my pussy, what makes me moan.

“I won’t stand in line,” he tells me as we lay on the floor of this office, his fingers reaching into me. “I won’t stand in line, but I will love you.”

I am gone, I am fucked by these words, by the fierceness, the suddenness of this. I am coming, on his hand, I know I must be crying out, my mind is in freefall, my cunt clutching him, my mouth devouring him. His eyes are searching me, what is he looking for, what does he want, I no longer care. For a moment, I will give him anything he asks, I know this, I feel myself sliding, losing control.

To hell with it.

“Please,” I say, nothing more. I know what I want, him inside me, pound me, use me, do it. He makes me say it, makes me tell him what I want.

“Fuck me, fuck me.”

He pulls me to a chair, I pull my knees up, my heels on the chair, and he is fucking me hard.

“Look at me, open your eyes and look at me when you come,” and I do, both of us coming, giving good as we get.

There is no afterglow, there is no soft place to lay, we simply find somewhere to sit, sheepishly reaching out to kiss now and again, more and more, until we are back in the vacant office. I need no convincing, he does not ask.

I am on the desk, skirt up around my waist, holding on the the edge of the desk. “Harder.” I need say it only once, he hits that spot that makes my pussy tighten, he fills me, slamming over and over, and I come again.

This is not pretty sex, a montage of interlaced fingers and soft kisses. I come with a vengeance, gritting my teeth, growling, he pushes my legs back, deeper, balls deep.

“Stop, stop.” I am done, finished. It is over. We have done this thing.

 

Every day, I walk past the office, sometimes I look at the floor, the desk. It shows no signs of the acts that took place. I know I will never have office sex again, it was spontaneous, to plan it would allow my brain to reason, it wouldn’t happen.

But now I know, I understand it, the appeal of an act in an unexpected place, sense of urgency, the juxtaposition of work and play, the weird ‘did that really happen’ feeling I get when I go into that room.

Hats off to you, Don Draper.

4 responses »

  1. Hi Eva, I love quickies and love how you got me into your experience with this story.

    Wish I’d been there, you know?

    So, I’d like to know if you’d contribute something to our “On the Art of Erotica” series? I’m inviting erotica writers to write about what they’ve learned, personally or as a writer, as a result of writing erotica? Check out my own post andthe post by Remittance Girl.

    Let me know. 🙂

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