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

He Filed My Spec, Then We Had Sex in the Office

9 min readOffice Sex Stories

I had one sleeve of my coat on when Adrian spoke from the far end of the table.

“I already sent Facilities your spec,” he said. “Not mine.”

The conference room still smelled like marker and coffee. Our vendor committee had broken twenty minutes ago. I had stayed to gather the sample chips. He had stayed for reasons I had not asked about.

I froze with the coat hanging off my shoulder. “You fought me for an hour.”

“I did.” He set the clicker down like it had offended him. “Then I sat here and sent yours. Walnut frames. The denser foam. The layout you sketched on the board.”

That was the work. That was supposed to be the end of it. I should have finished putting the coat on and walked to the elevator like a person with a bus to catch.

I didn’t.

He Filed My Spec Anyway

“Why tell me now?” The coat slid the rest of the way off and landed on the chair. Late Thursday light cut across the frosted glass. Down the hall a copier thunked, then went quiet.

Adrian stayed on his side of the table. His tie was already loose. The top button of his shirt had been open since the second round of arguing. “Because if I let you leave mad, you would think I buried your numbers. I didn’t. I used them.”

“You called the denser foam a vanity spend.”

“It is a vanity spend.” A tired smile pulled at his mouth. “It is also the right spend. You were not going to hear that while we were scoring vendors in front of people.”

The admission sat between us thicker than the leftover coffee. For three weeks we had used the refresh project like a sport. He would undercut my lead times. I would undercut his finish samples. The office had started treating our committee like a show.

“So the fight is over,” I said.

“The fight is over.” He did not move closer. “The rest of it isn’t.”

“What rest?”

He looked at the coat, then at my mouth. “I kept picking the opposite chair because I wanted the hour. Not the foam. If that makes you put the coat back on, put it back on.”

Heat climbed my throat. The copier stayed quiet. Nobody knocked. The meeting notes were already gone with the rest of the committee.

“That is a rotten professional habit,” I said.

“I know.”

I walked around the table instead of toward the door. My pulse was stupid and obvious in my wrists. “The spec is filed. Facilities has it. This is not a bargain.”

“I am not offering a bargain.” His voice dropped. “I am telling you why I am still in this room.”

Close up he smelled like soap and the dry-erase dust we had both been breathing. I could have laughed it off, collected the sample chips, and made the 5:40 bus. My hand found the edge of the table instead.

“If I stay, it is because I want to stay,” I said. “Not because you picked walnut.”

“Good.” He waited. The pause was the whole point. “Stay, then.”

I kissed him first. It was not graceful. His mouth opened under mine like he had been holding the same breath through every vendor slide. His hands landed on my waist and stayed there until I made a sound that was not an argument.

Hands Instead of Arguments

The table hit the back of my thighs. Sample chips scattered toward the window. Adrian made a frustrated noise against my mouth and shoved the last of them aside with his forearm so I would not sit on a plastic square of oak.

“Blinds are down,” I muttered, already pulling his tie the rest of the way free.

“They have been down since the lighting demo.” His mouth found the side of my throat. “Do not talk about lighting.”

I laughed once, short, and then his thigh pressed between mine and the laugh broke. The skirt I had worn for the committee rode up when he lifted me onto the table. Cool laminate met the backs of my legs. My blouse had come untucked without either of us making a ceremony of it.

Buttons. His, then mine. I got three of his open before I gave up and pulled the shirt apart enough to get my mouth on his collarbone. He made a low sound that had nothing to do with lead times. His palm slid up my ribs, hesitated at the underwire, then covered my breast through the bra like he needed the weight of it before he could think.

“Kendra.” My name came out rough.

“Do not get careful now.” I hooked my fingers in his belt. “You were not careful with my foam.”

That earned me a bite at the hinge of my jaw, not hard enough to mark, hard enough to shut me up. He dragged the cup of my bra down and put his mouth on my nipple. Wet heat. The scrape of his teeth. My hips jerked and the table gave a cheap little shudder.

Down the hall someone laughed, far away, then a door closed. We both went still for a second. The laugh did not come closer. Adrian’s forehead rested against my sternum. His breath was hot through the open blouse.

“Still here,” I said.

He nodded against my skin and went back to work with his mouth. I got his belt open. The zipper followed. He was hard in my hand, heavy, already wet at the head. I stroked him once and his hips punched forward like his body had been waiting for a vote that was not on the agenda.

“Off the table or on it,” he said against my breast.

“On it.” I lay back on my elbows. The ceiling tiles were the ugly kind. I did not look at them long. He pushed my skirt to my waist, dragged my underwear down my legs, and dropped it somewhere near the abandoned clicker. Cool air hit me. Then his fingers did.

I was already wet. Two fingers slid in easy, and my head dropped back. He curled them and watched my face like he was still scoring something. I grabbed his wrist and made him stay on that spot until my thighs shook.

“Adrian.”

“I hear you.” He pulled his fingers out, sucked them without being cute about it, and shoved his pants down far enough. He lined up and paused with the head of his cock against me. “Yes?”

“Yes.” I hooked my calf around his hip and pulled.

He pushed in on one long stroke that stole the rest of the afternoon out of my lungs. Full. Thick. The stretch made my mouth open on nothing. He held still buried to the hilt, breathing like he had run the stairs, and I felt myself clench around him in greedy little pulls.

“Move,” I said.

He moved. The first thrusts were careful only because the table was a liar and would walk if we let it. Then he found a rhythm that slammed the edge of the laminate into the backs of my thighs in a way I was going to feel on the bus. I planted one hand behind me and used the other to drag him closer by the open shirt.

Skin slapped. My bra was half on, one breast still caught in the cup, the other wet from his mouth. He ducked and sucked that nipple again while he fucked me, and the double hit made my voice crack. I bit it back. The frosted glass would not hide a shout.

“Look at me,” he said.

I did. His pupils were blown. A smear of my lipstick sat at the corner of his mouth. Whatever professional version of him had argued about foam was gone. This was the man who had stayed after the committee broke, who had sent my spec because he could not stand me walking out thinking he had won by cheating.

I got a hand between us and rubbed my clit in tight circles timed to his hips. The orgasm came up fast, mean, office-bright. I clenched around his cock and shook through it with my teeth in my own lip. He swore, low, and lost the careful rhythm.

He hooked my other leg higher and drove in harder. The table inched. A sample chip ticked off the edge and hit the carpet. I took every stroke. Wet sounds filled the room under the HVAC hush. When he came he buried his face against my neck and went rigid, pulsing inside me, his hand fisted in the hem of my skirt like he needed the fabric to stay standing.

We stayed like that for a few breaths. His weight was a good problem. My blouse was a wreck. Somewhere under the table my underwear waited like evidence neither of us was going to catalog.

He eased out. The empty ache made me hiss. I sat up slowly, thighs wet, skirt still bunched. He tucked himself away first, then handed me the underwear without a speech. I stepped into it. The conference room looked the same and did not.

Separate Elevators Afterward

I fixed my bra and did the buttons I could find. Two of his had hit the floor. He picked them up and put them in his pocket like a man returning borrowed pens.

The coat was still on the chair. I put it on properly this time, both sleeves, and smoothed the collar in the dark glass of the idle display screen. My mouth looked kissed. There was nothing to do about that except leave.

Adrian rolled his sleeves down. The loosened tie went into his pocket with the buttons. “Facilities will circulate the spec tomorrow. Your name is on the recommendation.”

“I know.” I hooked my bagless hands into the coat pockets because I needed somewhere to put them. “Do not walk me to the lobby.”

He nodded once, like that was another spec he could live with. “I am going back to my desk.”

The hallway was empty when I opened the door. Copier light sat unused. I took the east elevator. The doors shut on the carpet and the leftover coffee smell and the man still in the conference room gathering the last sample chips with his shirt not quite right.

On the ground floor I walked out into the Richmond evening without waiting to see if the west bank of elevators opened. My thighs protested the first curb. The 5:40 bus was already gone. I let it be gone. Tomorrow the office would have walnut frames on a calendar and nothing on the minutes about how the vote actually ended.

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