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Office Sex After My Colleague Halted the Elevator

7 min readOffice Sex Stories

When Friday Almost Ended Early

The scarf snagged on my coat button while I was already pointed at the elevator bank. Friday had gone thin after the client pulled the live demo, and I wanted the sidewalk before the Baltimore sky went the color of wet slate.

Harlan Quist said my name from the coat rack like he was opening a status meeting.

“Brooke. Wait.”

I kept the coat half on. “If this is about Monday, Nia already locked the presenter. I’m going home.”

He had his own coat over one arm and did not put it on. The open office behind us still clattered in that late way, chairs scraping, someone laughing at a ping. We were colleagues on the same account team, same title, same stained mugs by the window. I had no reason to stay.

“I asked Nia to take you off,” he said.

That stopped my hands. “You what?”

“I told her you should not present.”

I let the scarf hang. Heat climbed my throat that had nothing to do with wool. “You tanked me on a client walk-up. That is my work, Harlan.”

“It is not your work.”

“Then what is it?”

He looked at the elevator lights instead of me. “I could not stand next to you for forty minutes and keep my head. That is the whole ugly reason.”

What He Admitted Anyway

I laughed once, ugly. “So you used a workplace vote because you got distracted. That is worse.”

“I know.”

“The slot stays as Nia locked it. I’m not bargaining it back. If that is why you stopped me, you are wasting a coat.”

“It is not a bargain,” he said. “I already told her my reason was selfish and she still locked it. I stopped you because I was going to let you walk out and hate me in silence.”

My pulse sat in my mouth. The admission should have sent me into the elevator. It did the opposite. I hated that it did the opposite.

“Say the rest.”

“I want you. Not the slide. Not a redo. You.”

I should have left. I put my bag on the nearest desk instead, still wearing the coat. “If anything happens, it is not for Monday. You don’t get a slot. I don’t get a slot. We are still the same two people on the same team tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

I reached for his loosened tie because my mouth had already decided. He met me halfway. The kiss was clumsy from the coats and then it was not. Someone down the row shouted about a printer. We broke apart like guilty interns.

“Editing suite,” I said. “Now. If you want this, walk.”

He walked. I followed with the coat still on, scarf trailing, heels too loud on the third-floor carpet. The suite sat past the kitchen, a dim room with blackout blinds and a long counter used for color checks. He shut the door. He did not lock it. I noticed that and stayed anyway.

The coat came off first, then the scarf. He dropped his coat on the rolling chair. My blouse had too many buttons for how fast my hands were moving. He helped with the last two and his knuckles brushed the lace under it. I made a sound I did not plan to make in this building.

“Still yes?” he asked, quiet, not like a meeting.

I pulled his mouth back to mine instead of giving a speech. That was enough. His tie hit the counter. The shirt followed, then my skirt zipper, then the scrape of his belt. I kept the heels. He kept glancing at the door like the office might grow a conscience.

We did not undress like people with time. My bra hooked on one elbow. His trousers caught on a shoe. I laughed into his shoulder and he swore, then got free. The counter was cold through my panties until he hooked them aside with two fingers and found me already wet.

“Christ, Brooke.”

“Don’t narrate it.”

He kissed me anyway, slower, while his hand worked in small mean circles. I held the edge of the counter and tried not to knock over a foam board of last quarter’s campaign. The office hummed through the wall, a copier, a distant laugh. None of it belonged to this, and all of it did.

When I reached for him he was hard, hot, a little shaky. I stroked him once and he dropped his forehead to mine. Wallet, foil, the ordinary pause. I watched him roll the condom on because I wanted the ordinary pause. I wanted the proof this was not some accident of fluorescent light.

He lifted me onto the counter. The blackout blinds made the room feel later than it was. I hooked a heel behind his thigh and pulled. He pushed into me in one long, careful drive that still punched the air out of my chest.

“Okay?”

“Move.”

He moved. Not frantic at first. Deep, measured, the kind of rhythm that made the counter creak and made me bite the inside of my cheek to stay quiet. My blouse hung open. His mouth found my breast, then the hinge of my jaw, then the place under my ear that wrecked my posture.

The suite smelled like toner and his skin. I wrapped both legs around him and he cursed into my hair. Each thrust shoved me back an inch until I had to brace on a stack of color proofs. Papers slid. I did not care. The building could have caught fire. I still would have stayed on that counter with his cock stretching me open.

“Harder,” I said, and he gave it to me harder.

The angle changed when he dragged me closer to the edge. My clit dragged against him on every stroke. I was loud then, a broken sound I tried to swallow and failed. He clapped a hand over my mouth, not rough, just workplace-smart, and I licked his palm because I could. His hips stuttered.

We fucked like people who had argued in a hallway and then chosen this instead of the sidewalk. No pretty speech. Sweat at his temple. My nails in his shoulder. The condom’s thin drag every time he pulled back and drove in again. I came first, sudden, a hard clench that made me kick the cabinet door. He held me through it, still buried, breathing like he had run stairs.

“Don’t stop.”

He did not stop. The second stretch of it was messier, wetter, my body too sensitive and greedy anyway. I pulled his hair. He said my name like it hurt. When he came he went still and deep, a groan against my collarbone, both hands tight on my hips as if the counter might dump me on the floor.

We stayed like that for a few breaths. The copier down the hall kept chewing paper. Reality returned in ugly little pieces: the open blouse, the condom, the fact that Nia was probably still at her desk two bays over.

He pulled out carefully. I sat on the counter with my skirt rucked and my pulse stupid. Neither of us reached for a joke. The workplace had not vanished. It had only gone quiet in this one room.

The Elevator Button After

I dressed without hunting a mirror. Blouse, skirt, the panties I had to step back into, coat, scarf, the same crooked button that had snagged me in the first place. He stood with his shirt half buttoned and did not ask me to stay. That helped more than a speech would have.

“Monday is still Monday,” I said. “The slot is still locked.”

“I know.”

My bag was where I had left it, out by the desks. I walked out of the suite first. The open office had thinned but not emptied. Someone in sales was still packing a laptop. Harlan followed as far as the coat rack and then stopped, as if he understood the geography of what we had just done.

The elevator lights were the same ugly amber they had been when he said my name. I could have waited. I could have let him ride down with me and turn the sidewalk into another negotiation.

I pressed the call button with my knuckle. The car arrived empty. I stepped in, turned, and watched the doors start to close on the third-floor carpet and on him still standing by the rack with his coat over his arm.

Down was the choice. I took it.

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