Office Affair Sex Story

An office affair sex story is usually about a junior and a boss, and this one never was, because Rekha ran the same floor I did and nobody in that building had power over the other — which is the only reason it could happen at all.

Office affair sex story

It started as an argument about the Q3 numbers, at eleven at night, in a glass room on the eleventh floor of a tower in Gurugram where everyone else had gone home.

We were on opposite sides of the table and then the same side of it and I don’t remember deciding that part.

What I remember is her pen going down on the file and her saying, without looking up, that my version of the projection was optimistic and mine was honest, and both of us knowing that neither of those was what we were really arguing about.

She looked up. I looked back.

The lift on our floor chimed and we both flinched like teenagers.

That was the whole first night. The lift opened on nobody, closed again, and Rekha gathered her file and said goodnight and left, and I sat in that glass room for twenty minutes after, doing nothing.

It went on for three weeks like that. The late hours got later. The files stopped mattering.

Then on a Thursday she came back to the floor at nine for something she’d left and found me still at my desk, and she stood in the doorway and said, “You’re always here now.”

“So are you,” I said.

She shut the door behind her. Not locked — I want to be honest about that — just shut, and the whole building went quiet the way a building does at nine, and she crossed the room and stood at the corner of my desk and looked down at me.

“Say it,” she said.

“Say what.”

“You know what.”

I reached out and put my hand on her hip, and she didn’t move, and my thumb moved once along the line of her waistband and that was all the permission either of us needed.

She came around the desk and sat on the edge of it, and I stood up between her knees and kissed her, and it was not gentle and it was not slow, three weeks of it in one kiss, her hands in my collar and mine in her hair, both of us breathing hard through our noses trying to keep it quiet in a room with glass walls.

“The blinds,” she said against my mouth.

I reached over and hit the button and the blinds came down over the glass, all the way round, and the room turned into a box, and she laughed at the noise they made and pulled me back by the tie.

“Take it off,” she said, meaning the tie, and I did, and she used it to pull me down again.

Her blouse came open under my hands. She helped — quick, efficient, the way she did everything — shrugged it off, reached back and unhooked her bra herself in one motion and let it fall, and I put my mouth on her throat and then her chest and took one nipple and then the other between my lips, and she leaned back on her palms on the desk and let me, her head tipping back, her breath going uneven for the first time since I’d known her.

My hand went up her skirt. Her thigh was warm and bare to the top and my fingers found the wet edge of her underwear and pushed under it, and she was already so wet that she made a low, embarrassed sound at how easy it was, and then she stopped being embarrassed and opened her legs wider on the desk.

I slid two fingers into her and she gripped my wrist and moved it for me, showing me the rhythm she wanted, riding her hips forward onto my hand, her heel hooked on the edge of the drawer.

Then she stopped me.

“Not here,” she said. “I’m not— I don’t want to come on your hand in an office.” She said it almost angry, and then she pulled me up by the shirt and said, quieter, “I want to feel you.”

The phone on my desk rang.

We both froze with our foreheads together. It rang four times and stopped and neither of us breathed, and then the voicemail light blinked on and off and she started to laugh, shaking, silent, and I kissed her to shut myself up as much as her.

Then she stepped out of her shoes and went down onto the carpet in front of the desk and looked up at me once for permission, which I gave by not moving, and she took me in her mouth.

Her hands were flat on my hips and her tongue moved slow and deliberate along me, and it was unbearable precisely because of how calm she was about it, her eyes up on mine the whole time.

I put a hand on the back of her head, careful with her hair, and she took me deeper and then pulled off and looked at me and said, “Not yet,” and stood up.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist, turned around, and bent over the desk, forearms on the file, looking back at me over her shoulder, and there was no mistaking what for.

I pushed her skirt up over her hips and pulled her underwear aside and went into her from behind, and she took it with her mouth pressed into her own arm, one hand flat on the desk and the other reaching back to grip my thigh. The desk was the wrong height and the angle was wrong at first and she shifted her hips and got it right and everything after that was easy.

I saw the muscles move along her back under the silk each time I pushed in, and I ran a hand the whole length of her spine, and she pushed back onto me so hard the desk slid an inch across the carpet.

When she pushed back against me the second time she reached behind and took one of my hands off her hip and put it back on her breast, and I held it there and felt her heartbeat hard under my palm.

I kissed down her spine between the shoulder blades and she arched her back and pushed her hips up into my mouth.

My mouth was on her neck and her hand was back in my hair and the file was crushed flat under her hip.

I gripped her hips and set a hard rhythm and she took every stroke with her forehead down on the wood.

Her skin was damp with sweat where my chest pressed to her back and the silk of her blouse slid between us.

My hand slid round to her front and my fingers found her clit and kept moving while I thrust, and she pressed her mouth harder into her arm.

She reached back and hooked a hand behind my thigh and pulled me deeper, her breath ragged and wet against the desk.

I leaned over her back and put my mouth at her ear and told her to keep quiet, and she laughed into the wood, shaking, and pulled tight around me.

Her inner thigh pressed on the edge of the desk and left a red line there that was still there the next morning when I passed her in the corridor.

When I slowed she pushed back hard with her hips, impatient, and I gave her exactly the rhythm she was asking for.

It was fast and quiet and filthy, my hips slapping against her ass and my hand flat on her stomach. My hand came round to her front and my fingers found her while I moved, and she bit down on her own arm to stay silent, her whole body folding forward onto the desk with each thrust, the file sliding under her, a stapler going off the edge and hitting the carpet with a dull knock neither of us cared about.

She came first, clenching tight around me, her thighs shaking against the edge of the desk. I felt it — the long shiver, the tight grip, the way she went still and then shook — and she pressed her forehead to the desk and said something I didn’t catch into the wood.

I came a few strokes later with my chest against her back and my mouth at her ear and my hand over hers on the desk, and for a moment the only sound in that glass box was both of us getting our breath back.

Then we straightened up. She fixed her blouse in the dark reflection of the window, I did up my belt, we put the file back in order and didn’t look at each other.

“Appraisals are next month,” she said, at the door, deadpan.

“Yeah,” I said.

She held the door for me the way she always did and we took the lift down together in silence, sharing it with a security guard who knew both our faces, and at the lobby she turned left and I turned right and we never once talked about that Thursday, though for the two years I stayed at that company I could never look at a closed door on the eleventh floor without my mouth going dry. More office stories.