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

Keeping the Storefront Mural Ended in Office Conference Sex

9 min readOffice Sex Stories

“Keep it or kill it, Ellis. Facilities is standing in the lobby and they will not wait through your lunch.”

Sable Merrow did not knock. She came into Conference B the way she always did when a job was about to slip, hip against the door so it shut behind her, color boards already in her hands.

The sandwich sat unwrapped on the long table. Eleven-fifteen, same as every Thursday, same quiet room on our Tulsa floor, same bad coffee from the corner machine. Storefront mural swatches for the riverfront client covered the glass: brick red, a dirtier rust, a near-black that ate light.

She set the boards down hard enough to rattle the speakerphone. “Owen from facilities wants a yes before he orders the lift. You have been circling this red for a week.”

“I was going downstairs.”

“Then decide on the way out.” Her mouth was already impatient. “Keep the mural and we stay here and pin the final red. Kill it and I walk to the lobby alone and you eat in peace.”

The riverfront client had already paid the deposit. Killing the mural would spare Owen a headache and waste a week of nights we had already spent arguing over brick. Keeping it meant standing over those boards with her, close, which had been a problem for months in ways neither of us put on a timesheet.

“Keep it,” I said.

Sable’s shoulders dropped like she had been holding a beam. She shoved the near-black swatch aside and dragged the rust board to the center, then the brick, then a strip of the actual brick photograph taped at the corner. The sandwich stayed where it was. Lunch was over the second the word keep left my mouth.

After I Said Keep

“Come here and look at this rust in the real light, not the hallway glare.” She was already at the window strip, holding the board up so the noon came through it. Conference B sat along the inner glass, frosted to the waist, clear above that. Heads moved in the bullpen beyond. Nobody paused.

The rust went warm in the sun. Standing that close put her cream blouse against my sleeve and the faint smell of marker on her fingers. She had a clip in her dark hair and a navy skirt that had a crease from the stool in the studio.

“This one,” she said. “Not the brick. Brick looks cheap at that scale.”

“Rust reads dirty from the street.”

“Dirty is the point.” Her knuckle bumped mine on the edge of the board. Neither of us moved the hand away. “You kept it so we could fight about dirt, Ellis. So fight.”

The fight did not arrive. What arrived was the old thing we had been stepping around since the winter pitch, the thing that showed up when a job ran long and the rest of the floor went fuzzy. Her hip found the table. Mine found the same line. The board trembled between us and then she set it down like it had become heavy.

Sable looked at my mouth, not the swatch. She leaned in and kissed me, short, testing, the kind of kiss that could still be laughed off if I turned my face. I did not turn. The second kiss had tongue in it and her hand on my belt, and a small sound came out of her that had nothing to do with rust.

The table edge caught her. My palm found the warm cloth over her waist. She pulled at the front of my light blue shirt until two buttons gave and then she laughed into the next kiss, not because it was funny, because the waiting had been stupid.

“Here?” The word came out against her cheek, not as a speech, as surprise at my own hands.

“Here.” She bit once at my lower lip and tugged the shirt free of the trousers. “Before Owen starts buzzing that box.”

The speakerphone sat black and quiet. Out in the bullpen a printer started. Nobody opened our door. Her blouse came up enough for my hands to find bare skin, then the catch of her bra, then the weight of her breasts when the catch let go. She made a noise that she swallowed, glancing once at the clear glass above the frost.

A pair of shoulders passed. They did not look in. Sable still froze until the shoulders were gone, then she dragged my mouth back down and put my hand under the navy skirt.

She was wet through the cotton. The discovery landed in my gut like a dropped tool. Two fingers along the fabric made her hips tip forward, and she held my wrist there, not pushing me off, showing me the pace she wanted. The sandwich paper whispered when her heel knocked the table leg.

Trousers are a clumsy thing in a glass room. The belt came open with a sound too loud for the hour. She watched the hallway while I got the zipper down, then she looked back and put her palm against me through the boxers, firm, interested, a little mean in the nicest way.

“Wallet,” I said, because the condom was there and I was not going to pretend otherwise.

She found it, tore the packet with her teeth like she had been waiting to be useful, and rolled it on with both hands while I held the table and tried not to make a noise the bullpen could map. The latex sat tight. Her skirt went up around her hips. The panties hooked aside rather than off, a practical office move, and she hopped to sit on the table with her knees open toward me.

Entering her was slow because the angle was awkward and because she was tight around the first inch. She breathed out through her teeth and pulled my ass closer with both hands until I was in to the hilt and her forehead hit my collarbone. The table gave a small answering creak.

We stayed like that for a few beats, joined, listening. The printer stopped. Someone laughed three offices over. Sable clenched on purpose and I almost folded.

Moving started shallow so the table would not walk. Her calves hooked my hips. Each push rubbed her through the shoved-aside cotton and she bit my shoulder to keep the sound down. The rust board slid an inch. Brick red watched us like a stupid witness.

“Harder.” It was a whisper in my ear, not a performance. “They cannot hear if you do not slam the wood.”

Harder still meant careful. The rhythm went deep and tight instead of loud. Sweat started under my shirt. Her blouse hung open, cream cloth bunched, nipples dark where my mouth had been. When I bent to take one again she arched and the clip in her hair tapped the glass.

That was the moment the hallway got a visitor. Owen’s voice, distant, asking someone at the front whether Conference B was occupied. Sable’s eyes went wide. We did not pull apart. We went still, buried, her nails in my back, both of us breathing like thieves. The voice moved on toward the break kitchen. The still-ness broke on her first, a roll of her hips that pulled me with her.

When the Hallway Passed

After that the sex got greedier and quieter at the same time. She pulled me down until her back met the table and the sandwich had to be shoved aside with a slap of paper. From that angle I could see the frost line and the moving heads and the ridiculous mural colors while I fucked her in short strokes that made her mouth open without sound.

Her hand went between us. Two fingers on her clit, matching me, messy and sure. The navy skirt was a belt of cloth now. Flats dangled off one foot and then hit the carpet. She came first, sudden, a full-body clamp that made my vision narrow, her other hand slapped over her own mouth so the floor would not get the news.

Watching her through that, still inside, still sheathed, wrecked whatever control I had left. The finish hit me in the thighs and then the spine. I held the table rim and poured into the condom in dumb, silent jerks while she stroked the back of my neck like she was calming a horse.

We stayed stacked for a few seconds because standing felt like a rumor. Her pulse hammered under my mouth at her throat. Somewhere a microwave beeped. The office went on being an office.

Pulling out meant dealing with the condom immediately, knot, tissue from the side credenza, into my pocket because a bin in Conference B was a story. She watched that practical ugliness without flinching, then wriggled the cotton back into place and tugged the navy skirt down her thighs. The cream blouse closed over the unhooked bra. Two buttons, not all of them.

My own shirt was a disaster of wrinkles and open front. Belt first, then zipper, then the remaining buttons done wrong on purpose so I would not look freshly assembled. The rust board had a smear from her palm. She wiped it on her skirt and snorted.

“Still rust,” she said. “I am not changing it because you came.”

“Keep rust.” The words came out rough. “Tell Owen rust.”

The speakerphone chose that second to light up. Front desk, the little red eye. Sable reached, then stopped, looking at me instead of the button.

Owen’s voice leaked through before anyone answered, tinny from the open line at reception: he needed the mural call, he had the lift truck on hold, he was not standing in the lobby all afternoon.

I Took the Lobby

Sable’s hand hovered. Sending her down there would have been the old pattern, the one where I stayed with the boards and she ran the building. Keeping the mural had already changed the hour. It could change who walked.

I hit the speaker. “Conference B. Tell Owen I am coming down. The mural stays. Final color is the rust. No lift delay.”

The front desk made a surprised little yes and the light died. Sable sat on the table edge with her blouse still dishonest and her mouth swollen and watched me pick my loafers into a straight line.

“You hate the lobby.”

“I kept it.” The sandwich looked tragic. I left it. “Rust stays. I am the one who says it to his face.”

She reached out as I passed, caught two fingers, squeezed once, and let go. No speech about later. No tidy plan. Just the wet heat still on my skin and the boards in a stack with rust on top.

The door opened on the ordinary noise of the Tulsa floor, printers and talk and someone’s leftover garlic. I walked toward the stairs with the answer in my mouth and the condom in my pocket and did not look back to see if she had started buttoning the rest.

More stories to read

Related Stories