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Two fully clothed adults, one adult Indian woman and one adult Indian man in an after-hours Indian office corridor.

Office Vendor Hour Undid the Lunch We Used as Cover

8 min readOffice Sex Stories

“You still have both visitor badges,” I said.

Grant Hollis stopped in the doorway of the briefing room with the lanyards tangled around his fingers. Down the hall the atrium already sounded like vendor hour, glasses and polite laughter bouncing off glass. Our office floor had been staged since nine.

“Helen moved the overflow here,” he said. “She wants us hosting the stragglers so the recognition lunch can swallow the main crowd.”

I had been counting on that lunch. Last Thursday, after we almost kissed by the printers, I told him that if we were going to be stupid, it had to be in this office, not in a car like we were ashamed of our own floor. He had nodded too fast. This morning he had booked us seats at the recognition table as if a sheet cake could keep two coworkers harmless.

The briefing room smelled like citrus cleaner and warm electronics. A long table, six chairs, frosted glass to the corridor. I set my notebook down harder than I meant to. Grant put the badges on the table instead of clipping them on, which was how I knew he had not come in to host anyone yet.

“That lunch was your idea,” I said. “You put my name on the seating chart before I even filled a mug.”

He shut the door with his shoulder, not a lock, just the ordinary click we used when a client might wander. Noise from the atrium thinned. He stayed by the glass, palms open, like he was still holding work.

“I thought you wanted a crowd,” he said. “I thought ‘in the office’ meant keep it professional and stop looking at my mouth.”

The Sentence He Heard Wrong

I laughed once, short, because the misunderstanding had been walking around our workplace in a clean shirt. He had been handing me printouts without touching fingers. I had been answering his chats in full sentences like a stranger on the same account.

“I meant here,” I said. “Not later. Not off-site. If I want you, I want you on this floor, where we actually are, not in some story we tell ourselves in a parking lot.”

Grant’s throat moved. He glanced at the frosted panel, then back at me, and the visitor badges sat between us like a job we had not started.

“Say that again without the workplace poetry,” he said.

“I want you. I wanted you Thursday. I used the recognition lunch the same way you did, as a wall. Helen just knocked the wall into the atrium.”

He came around the table slowly, the way he approached a live deck, checking my face at each step. When he was close enough that I could see the nick on his jaw from a hurried shave, he stopped. He did not grab. He waited with his hands at his sides, which was the whole point of last week’s sentence.

I hooked two fingers in his belt loop and pulled. His mouth met mine like he had been holding the kiss in a folder. It was clumsy for a second, teeth, a breath, then it settled. His hand found my waist over the navy blouse and stayed there until I made a sound against his tongue.

“Yes,” I said into the kiss, because he had gone still. “Don’t turn this into another seating chart.”

That was the only check either of us needed. He kissed me deeper, and I opened for it, tasting coffee and the mint he kept for vendor smiles. My back found the inner wall, the one without glass. His thigh slid between mine, and the gray skirt rode up without ceremony.

The atrium laughed at something a sales lead said. In here the table edge bit the back of my hip when we shifted. I unbuttoned his shirt far enough to get my palms on his chest. Heat, a scatter of hair, the jump of muscle when I scraped a nail.

He got my blouse open with more care than the moment deserved, then less. The bra was plain, dark, the kind I wore to an office because I had not planned on anyone seeing it. He bent and put his mouth on the upper swell of my breast, then tugged the cup down and sucked my nipple until my knee tried to climb his hip.

“Grant.” His name came out thin. He made a questioning sound against my skin and I pushed his head lower instead of explaining.

He went to his knees on the thin carpet like it was another workplace decision. The skirt bunched at my waist. He hooked my underwear aside rather than fighting the shoes, and then his mouth was on me, blunt and hungry, tongue spreading me while his hands held my thighs open against the wall.

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep the sound in. Wet heat, the scrape of stubble, the filthy little rhythm he found by listening to my breath. When he sucked my clit I grabbed his hair and did not pretend it was accidental. My other hand stayed on the wall, fingers spread, as if I could keep the office from tilting.

He worked me until my hips chased him. A finger slid in, then a second, curling while his mouth stayed greedy. I came on his face with my mouth open and almost silent, shaking, the frosted glass a pale smear in the corner of my eye. He stayed with it until I tugged him up by the shirt.

His mouth was slick. I kissed it anyway, tasting myself, and reached for his belt. The leather gave. I got my hand inside and found him hard, already wet at the head. He dropped his forehead to my shoulder and swore once, quietly, like he was still in a meeting.

“Wallet,” he said. “Left side.”

I got the condom out while he shoved trousers and underwear down far enough. He rolled it on with a practiced jerk that still trembled. I hopped my hip onto the table, notebook sliding, and pulled him between my knees. Underwear still hooked aside. Skirt a belt of fabric. Blouse open. His shirt hanging. We looked like a mess that belonged to this room and no other.

He pushed in on a long breath. Thick, stretching, the burn welcome after how ready I already was. I locked my ankles at his back and pulled until he was seated deep. We stayed like that for a second, joined, listening to someone clap in the atrium, and then he started to move.

It was not graceful. The table inched. A chair bumped my calf. He fucked me in tight strokes so the furniture would not announce us, and every stroke still landed. I held his neck and watched his face because I had spent a week watching his mouth in standups and pretending I was thinking about timelines.

“Harder,” I whispered, and he gave it, hips snapping, the condom a thin slick drag that still let me feel the ridge of him. My breasts moved with it. He put his mouth on the other nipple and I had to muffle a sound in his hair.

When he lifted my hips higher I felt him deeper, a pressure that made my eyes close. I reached down and rubbed myself where we joined, shameless, because the lunch cover was gone and I was done performing harmless. He watched my fingers and his rhythm broke, then found itself again, meaner, better.

“Lena.” Just my name, wrecked. I nodded against his cheek and came a second time around him, clenching, the kind of orgasm that made my feet point in the flats I had worn to look like a serious host.

He followed with a groan he swallowed against my collarbone, driving in and holding, pulsing into the condom. His arms shook. I kept him there until the shaking eased, one hand in his hair, the other on his spine under the open shirt.

He Walked Out Hosting

We stayed coupled for a few breaths, the table edge printing itself into me, the atrium still doing its cheerful work. Then he pulled out carefully, tied the condom, and found the small bin under the credenza like a man who had noticed trash cans in every room of this office for years.

I slid off the table on unsteady legs and put my underwear to rights, then the skirt, then the blouse buttons I could manage without a mirror. He tucked in, buckled, and ran a hand through his hair until it looked like vendor hour again instead of my fists.

The notebook had survived. I squared it without reading a word. Grant picked up both visitor badges, the lanyards untangled now, and clipped one to his own belt as if the assignment had been waiting politely.

He looked at me once, mouth still a little swollen, and did not ask what we were. The misunderstanding had been the wall. The wall was in the atrium, eating cake with strangers.

I sat, opened the laptop I had brought to look busy, and did not follow him. He opened the door on the ordinary hallway noise and walked toward the crowd with the second badge in his fist, already lifting it for whoever Helen had promised would straggle in.

The click of the latch was small. Through the frosted glass his shape joined the brighter shapes, and I stayed in the briefing room with the taste of him and the knowledge that our office had finally been used for the thing I had actually asked for.

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