Pressed Paper and Other Office Supplies Unbinding

I slide my key into the lock, twist it with more force than necessary, and push through my apartment door with a sigh that feels like it's been building all evening.

What a waste of a Saturday night.

James had seemed promising on paper. An accountant with a nice smile and all his hair—the bar is quite literally on the ground at this point. But three hours of his company had revealed a man about as exciting as a PowerPoint presentation on tax code revisions.

"We should do this again sometime," he'd said at my doorstep, and I'd smiled and nodded like the well-mannered professional I am. But we both knew the truth.

I kick off my sensible heels (the ones that pinched all evening but looked good with my navy dress) and move directly to the kitchen, where a bottle of cabernet sauvignon waits. I don't bother with proper aeration or the nice glasses. This is medicinal.

One glass down, I sink into my pristine white couch (a purchase that had seemed sophisticated but now feels like a monument to my sterile life) and stare at the wall. This apartment gleams with the same careful order I maintain at work. Everything in its place. Nothing messy or unpredictable.

My phone buzzes with a text from my sister: *How was the date?*

I type back: *Fine. He was nice.*

The universal code for "boring as watching paint dry."

By my second glass of wine, I'm scrolling mindlessly through social media, past photos of couples on weekend getaways and friends at bars. The algorithm knows me too well, serving up advertisements for luxury bath products and meal kit deliveries for one.

The third glass hits differently. My skin feels warm, my thoughts looser. I catch my reflection in the darkened window—hair still perfectly in place despite the disappointing evening, lipstick barely faded. Always so controlled. Always so...contained.

The scene from Monday's kitchen flashes in my mind. Chris leaning against the counter, that smirk playing on his lips as he looked me up and down. *You should smile more.* The memory sends an unexpected pulse between my legs.

"Fuck him," I mutter to the empty room, but the words come out breathy instead of angry.

My phone feels heavy in my hand. Before I can talk myself out of it, I open the camera. I've never done this before—never documented myself this way. But tonight, with wine warming my blood and irritation at my wasted evening buzzing under my skin, the idea feels thrilling.

I prop the phone against a pillow on my coffee table and sit back. I'm not even sure what I'm doing until my hands start moving. First to the buttons of my dress, then to my skin underneath.

The camera captures it all as I slide my hand beneath the fabric of my underwear. I'm already slick and swollen, more turned on than I've been in months. My fingers find a rhythm against my clit, circular motions that make my breath catch.

"Oh god," I whisper, as the pressure builds. My free hand moves to my breast, teasing my nipple through the lace of my bra.

In the distance of my wine-hazed mind, I know this is reckless. But the thought of someone—of him—watching me like this sends another shock of arousal through my body.

"You want to see me smile?" I murmur to the camera, imagining dark eyes watching me. "Watch me come instead."

My fingers move faster now, dipping inside my pussy before returning to circle my clit. The wet sounds of my arousal fill the quiet apartment.

"Fuck," I breathe, as the tension coils tighter. I'm not performing for the camera anymore—I'm chasing the release my body craves. My hips rise off the couch, pressing against my hand.

When I come, it's with an intensity that surprises me. My head falls back, mouth opening in a silent cry as pleasure pulses through me. My thighs shake, clenching around my hand as I ride out the waves.

For a few blissful moments, I float in the aftermath, body still trembling with aftershocks. I reach for my phone with clumsy fingers, intending to save the video to my hidden folder.

I tap the screen, but in my wine-addled state, I hit the wrong option. A notification pops up that I barely register: *Shared to Close Friends.*

It takes several seconds for reality to pierce my post-orgasmic haze. When it does, horror slams into me like a physical blow.

"No, no, no," I gasp, suddenly stone-cold sober as adrenaline floods my system.

I fumble with the phone, hands shaking so badly I can barely navigate the screen. How much did it share? How long was the clip? Who saw it?

I finally find the post—a five-second video. My face is clearly visible, eyes closed, lips parted in unmistakable pleasure, a soft gasp escaping as my body tenses in release.

"Oh my god," I whisper, frantically tapping to delete it.

The post disappears, but panic continues to surge through me. My Close Friends list is small—just ten people, mostly family and a few trusted colleagues I occasionally share personal updates with. What are the chances any of them were online at 11:42 on a Saturday night?

I try to convince myself no one saw. That the post was up for less than a minute. That tomorrow I can return to being composed, professional Evelyn who would never do something so reckless.

But as I sit in my now-silent apartment, the ghost of pleasure replaced by churning anxiety, a tiny voice whispers that some things, once seen, cannot be unseen.

And someone, somewhere, might have just glimpsed the woman behind the mask.

You think you know a person.

I've spent the last year watching Evelyn Hargrove move through this office like she owns it—back ramrod straight, eyes cool, that little frown line between her brows deepening whenever someone laughs too loudly or breaks her precious rules. I've made it something of a personal mission to crack that perfect facade. To see what might be underneath all that control.

I'm tapping my pen against my desk Monday morning, mentally drafting an email that I'm going to wait until 4:55 PM to send just to irritate her, when I feel a presence hovering at my shoulder.

"Chris." Abigail's voice is pitched low, nearly vibrating with excitement. "I need to show you something. Like, right now."

Abigail from Marketing is the office's one-woman intelligence agency. If there's gossip, she's either the source or the distributor.

"What's up, Abs?" I push back from my desk, spinning my chair to face her.

She glances around furtively before perching on the edge of my desk. Her dark bob swings forward as she leans in, phone clutched to her chest like it contains state secrets.

"You will not believe what I saw on Evelyn's Close Friends story Saturday night."

My eyebrows shoot up. "Evelyn has Instagram?" The idea of our buttoned-up project manager posting selfies seems about as likely as her showing up to work in a bikini.

"Right? I was shocked too when she added me a few months ago. She barely posts—just like, pictures of her plants and boring sunrise shots." Abigail's eyes gleam. "But Saturday night? Oh my god."

She unlocks her phone with a dramatic flourish. "It was only up for like, a minute before she deleted it, but..." She taps the screen a few times, then angles it toward me. "I screen-recorded it."

The video is only five seconds long. But five seconds is all it takes to completely rewrite everything I thought I knew about Evelyn Hargrove.

It's her face, unmistakably her—that porcelain skin, those high cheekbones, the red hair I've only ever seen pulled back now falling loose around her shoulders. But her expression... Christ. Her head is tilted back, eyes closed, lips parted. A soft gasp escapes her as her body visibly tenses in what can only be one thing.

I've seen that look before. On other women's faces. In my bed.

Heat spreads through my body, settling low in my stomach. I fight to keep my expression neutral as I hand the phone back to Abigail.

"Holy shit," is all I can manage.

"I know, right?" Abigail practically bounces. "Little Miss Perfect accidentally shared her orgasm face with her entire Close Friends list. I would literally die."

I'm not listening anymore. My mind is replaying those five seconds on a loop. The vulnerability in her expression. The raw pleasure. The complete abandonment of the rigid control she wears like armor.

It's the most honest I've ever seen her.

"What do you think she was doing?" Abigail whispers, delighted with herself. "Like, was she with someone, or...?"

"None of our business," I say, surprising myself with how protective the words sound.

Abigail pouts. "Since when are you no fun? I thought you hated her and her stuck-up attitude."

I shrug, trying to seem casual. "Just saying, we all have private lives."

But as Abigail saunters back to her desk, disappointed by my lack of enthusiasm for her gossip, I'm struck by a realization that's anything but casual.

I want to see that look on Evelyn's face again. In person. And I want to be the one who puts it there.

This isn't just about getting under her skin anymore. It's about discovering who she really is underneath all that control. The woman who films herself in moments of pleasure. The woman who gasps like that when she comes.

When she walks into the office twenty minutes later, coffee cup clutched like a shield, her professional mask firmly in place, our eyes meet briefly across the floor. She looks away first, a slight flush rising to her cheeks.

Oh yes, I decide. There's definitely more to Evelyn Hargrove than meets the eye.

And I'm suddenly very, very interested in finding out exactly what.

I can't shake the image from Abigail's phone. All through the Monday afternoon meeting, through Tuesday morning's conference call, it plays on repeat in my mind: Evelyn's face in those five seconds of unguarded pleasure.

The irony isn't lost on me that less than twenty-four hours after seeing that video, I'm pressing Abigail against the concrete wall of the stairwell between the fourth and fifth floors, her skirt hiked up around her waist.

This thing with Abigail isn't new. It started at the holiday party four months ago and has evolved into something convenient for both of us. No strings, no expectations—just the occasional hookup when the mood strikes. Usually in places we shouldn't be.

"We're going to get caught," she whispers against my neck, but her hands are already working at my belt. The thrill of possibly being discovered is part of our unspoken arrangement.

"That's half the fun," I murmur, sliding my hand between her legs. She's already wet through her underwear. "Besides, everyone's at lunch."

The stairwell is all cold concrete and fluorescent lighting, the kind of place designed to be purely functional. But right now, with Abigail's breath coming in little gasps as I push her panties aside and slide two fingers inside her, it feels like the most exciting place in the building.

"Fuck, Chris," she hisses, her head falling back against the wall with a soft thud. "Stop teasing."

I grin against her throat, curling my fingers just so, feeling her clench around me. "Impatient today, aren't we?"

My pants are around my thighs now, cock hard in my hand as I position myself between her legs. With one smooth thrust, I'm inside her, swallowing her moan with a kiss. The angle is awkward—always is in these stolen moments—but the danger makes everything more intense.

There's something desperate in the way we move together, like we're racing against the clock. And we are. Someone could walk in at any moment. My hand slides up to cover her mouth as I fuck her harder against the wall, her legs wrapped around my waist, her heels digging into my ass.

I'm close, feeling that familiar tightening, when the heavy door above us squeaks open. Abigail freezes, her eyes wide with panic, but I don't stop. I can't. I press deeper into her, holding her gaze, silently daring her to make a sound as footsteps descend toward us.

It's Ben from Accounting, bobbing his head to whatever's playing through his massive headphones. He's halfway down the stairs before he notices us, and by then, it's too obvious what we're doing—my pants around my ankles, Abigail's skirt bunched at her waist, her blouse half-unbuttoned.

But Ben, bless his oblivious soul, just gives us a friendly wave and says, "Hey guys, taking the scenic route?" before continuing his descent, seemingly blind to the fact that he's just walked in on two colleagues fucking in the stairwell.

The moment he's gone, Abigail bursts into mortified giggles against my shoulder. "Oh my god," she whispers, pushing at my chest. "I can't believe—he didn't even—"

But I'm already moving again, more urgently now. The close call has only heightened everything. "He didn't see anything," I lie, knowing damn well Ben saw exactly what was happening but was too awkward to acknowledge it.

It only takes a few more thrusts before I'm coming, burying my face in Abigail's neck to muffle my groan. She follows shortly after, her body tensing around mine as she bites down on her lip to stay quiet.

For a moment, we just breathe together, sweat cooling on our skin under the harsh fluorescent lights. Then reality reasserts itself.

"Shit," Abigail mutters, already smoothing down her skirt and rebuttoning her blouse with shaking fingers. Her face is flushed, half with lingering pleasure, half with embarrassment. "I can't believe Ben saw us. What if he tells someone?"

I pull up my pants, tucking my shirt back in with unhurried movements. There's something satisfying about the looseness in my muscles now, the release of tension. "Ben? He's probably convinced himself he didn't see anything. Too awkward to process it." I laugh, feeling no anxiety whatsoever about being caught.

Abigail doesn't look convinced. "Easy for you to say. You don't have to worry about being called the office slut."

"Hey," I say, more seriously now. "If anyone says anything like that, you send them to me." I mean it. What Abigail and I do is our business, and I don't tolerate double standards.

She nods, seemingly reassured, and finishes straightening her clothes. "I should get back. Julie's going to wonder where I disappeared to."

I watch her climb the stairs, composing herself with each step until, by the time she reaches the door, she looks like any other professional returning from lunch. No one would guess what she was doing five minutes ago.

As the door closes behind her, I lean against the wall, letting out a long breath. The encounter was good—it always is with Abigail—but even as I was inside her, my mind kept flashing to that five-second clip. To Evelyn's face transformed by pleasure.

I shake my head, pushing off from the wall. This fixation is getting ridiculous. Evelyn Hargrove is the last woman I should be obsessing over. She's uptight, judgmental, and would probably fire me if she knew half the things I did in this building.

But as I climb the stairs back to my floor, I can't help wondering what it would take to see that look on her face in person—to be the one who breaks through all that careful control.

I'm the last one in the office again. The quiet satisfaction I used to take in this fact has faded over the years, but the habit remains. I tell myself it's about dedication, about maintaining my position, but tonight it feels hollow. Still, there's comfort in routine.

The quarterly reports need fresh binders before Monday's presentation, and I mentally map the supply closet's organization as I walk through the darkened hallway. Every light I pass under flickers to life, motion sensors tracking my solitary progress.

When I reach the supply closet door, I'm surprised to find it slightly ajar, a slice of light escaping into the corridor. Someone's in there. I consider turning back—I could easily get the binders Monday morning—but that would mean adjusting my meticulously planned schedule.

I push the door open with more force than necessary, announcing my presence before I see him.

Chris is reaching for something on a high shelf, his dress shirt riding up to reveal a strip of skin above his waistband. He turns at the sound of my entrance, seeming unsurprised to find me there.

"Evelyn," he says, his voice neutral but with that underlying note of amusement that always makes me feel like I'm the punchline to a joke I haven't heard. "Working late again?"

"I could ask you the same thing," I reply, stepping fully into the room and letting the door swing closed behind me. "I need binders for the quarterly presentation."

He holds up a ream of paper—the expensive kind we order for client proposals. "Just grabbing some supplies for a personal project."

"That's company property," I say automatically, my tone sharper than intended.

He grins. "I'll bring in donuts Monday to make up for it."

I'm about to respond when a loud, definitive click echoes through the small space. We both turn toward the door.

"Did that just..." I begin, but I already know the answer.

Chris reaches the door first, turning the handle. Nothing happens. He jiggles it, applies more force, but it doesn't budge.

"The latch is stuck again," he says, his voice calm. "Maintenance was supposed to fix it last month."

A cold panic begins to spread through my chest. "Try again."

He does, pulling harder this time, but the handle merely rattles uselessly in his grip. "It's not opening from this side."

The reality of the situation crashes over me in waves. It's Friday night. The office is empty. The cleaning crew, who might have found us, was rescheduled to Sunday due to a staff shortage. My phone is sitting on my desk where I left it while gathering materials for the presentation.

"Where's your phone?" I ask, my voice sounding distant to my own ears.

Chris pats his pockets, then sighs. "Charging at my desk."

The panic becomes a physical thing now, constricting my lungs. The closet suddenly seems much smaller than it did a minute ago—windowless, isolated in the building's core, and now apparently soundproof as well, given the thickness of the fire door.

"This can't be happening," I say, moving past him to try the door myself, as if my touch might somehow yield different results. The handle remains immobile under my grip. "No, no, no."

"Evelyn," Chris says, his voice steady. "It's going to be okay."

I whirl on him, my carefully maintained composure cracking. "Okay? We're locked in a supply closet! No one knows we're here! No one will be coming in until Monday!"

"Someone will notice we're missing," he offers, but even he doesn't sound convinced.

I laugh, a sharp, humorless sound. "Who? My cat? Your... whoever you're seeing this week?"

If the barb lands, he doesn't show it. Instead, he steps back, giving me space, and surveys our surroundings with a calm that only heightens my agitation. The closet is large for a supply room, but small for two people potentially trapped for days. Metal shelving lines three walls, stocked with everything from paper to staplers to toner cartridges.

"There's water," he points out, nodding toward a case of bottles kept for meetings. "And probably some snacks in the emergency kit." He moves to a red container on a lower shelf and opens it, revealing granola bars and other non-perishables.

His practical assessment should be reassuring, but all I can focus on is the fact that I'm trapped in here with him—with Chris, of all people. The man who seems to exist solely to disrupt my carefully ordered world, who flouts every office protocol I've established, who walks around with that perpetual look of amusement that makes me feel simultaneously irritated and... something else I refuse to acknowledge.

"We should conserve the light," he says, reaching up to the single bulb dangling from the ceiling. "Batteries for the emergency light should last longer that way."

Before I can protest, darkness envelops us, replaced a second later by the dim glow of the wall-mounted emergency light. The shadows it casts transform the familiar supply closet into something strange and intimate.

I sink down against the wall, hugging my knees to my chest. "This is a nightmare."

Chris settles himself on the floor across from me, his long legs stretched out, nearly reaching my feet in the confined space. In the half-light, his face is all angles and planes, his usual playful expression replaced by something more contemplative.

"Could be worse," he says finally. "At least we're not trapped with Ben from Accounting. He'd be telling us about his podcast the whole time."

Despite myself, a small laugh escapes me, quickly smothered. I don't want to encourage him.

He smiles then, a flash of white teeth in the dimness, and there's a flicker of something in his eyes that makes my breath catch—a spark of interest, of curiosity, as if this predicament is not just an inconvenience but an opportunity.

And that look, more than the locked door or the enclosed space, is what sends a fresh wave of panic through me. Because being trapped in here with him is dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with emergency supplies or rescue prospects.

"We should try to get some sleep," I say abruptly, turning away from him, trying to find a comfortable position against the wall. "Conserve energy."

"Whatever you say, boss," he replies, and I can hear the smile in his voice without having to look at him.

I close my eyes, but I'm acutely aware of his presence just feet away—the sound of his breathing, the subtle shifts of his body, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the sterile smell of paper and toner. My heart is racing, and I tell myself it's just the claustrophobia, the stress of being trapped.

But as I lie there in the semi-darkness, feeling the weight of hours stretching ahead of us, I know that's not entirely true.

Time has become elastic, stretching and contracting in this windowless box. Has it been three hours? Five? I've lost count of how many times I've checked my watch, the luminous dial one of our few light sources besides the dim emergency lamp.

My back aches from sitting against the wall. I've tried various positions—knees up, legs stretched out, leaning against shelving—but nothing brings comfort. The room temperature has slowly dropped as the building's climate control adjusts for an unoccupied weekend.

Chris hasn't spoken much. After our initial panic subsided, we exchanged a few practical words about rationing the water and snacks, then settled into this strained silence. He's sitting about four feet away, occasionally shifting position, sometimes humming softly to himself.

I should be planning Monday's presentation, mentally refining my talking points, anything productive—but instead, I'm hyperaware of his every movement. The sound of his breathing. The way he occasionally stretches his shoulders, causing his shirt to pull tight across his chest. The subtle scent of his cologne growing more intimate as it mixes with his natural smell in the enclosed space.

My usual irritation with him has transformed into something else entirely. Without the buffer of other people, without the structure of our workplace roles, he's just a man. A frustratingly attractive man whose physical presence feels increasingly magnetic.

I shift again, trying to find a position that might let me doze, but my mind won't quiet. The silence between us has taken on a weight, pressing down, making the air feel thick and charged.

"You okay over there?" Chris's voice breaks through the stillness, making me jump slightly.

"Fine," I respond automatically, the word clipped.

He chuckles softly. "Very convincing."

I sigh, too exhausted to maintain my usual defenses. "What do you want me to say? That I'm having the time of my life trapped in a supply closet with you?"

"Could be worse company," he replies, and even in the dim light, I can see his smile.

Something about that smile—the ease of it, the warmth—cracks something in me. The professional veneer I've maintained for so long feels suddenly too heavy to hold up.

"This is insane," I say, my voice emerging smaller than I intended, with a slight tremor I can't control.

He shifts, turning more fully toward me, attentive in a way that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

I swallow hard, unable to believe what I'm about to say, yet unable to stop myself. "It's so wrong, but..." The words catch in my throat.

"But what?" he prompts gently.

I look at him, really look at him, my face stripped of its usual mask. In the low emergency light, his features are softened, his eyes dark and intent on mine.

"Being trapped in here with you..." I continue, barely above a whisper. "It's doing something to me. I can't explain it."

The confession hangs between us, and I immediately want to take it back, to erase the vulnerability I've just exposed. I've never spoken like this to anyone, let alone him.

Chris doesn't move, but his gaze intensifies, as if he's seeing me clearly for the first time. The silence stretches, but it's different now—electric, anticipatory.

"What is it doing to you, Evelyn?" he finally asks, his voice lower, rougher than before.

I close my eyes, unable to look at him as I acknowledge the truth. "Making me feel things I shouldn't."

"Says who?"

My eyes open. "What?"

"Who says you shouldn't feel whatever you're feeling right now?" He leans slightly forward, not crowding me, but eliminating some of the space between us. "Because trapped in here, with just us, all those office rules and proper behaviors don't really matter anymore, do they?"

The directness of his question, the challenge in it, sends a flush of heat through me. He's right—in here, the careful boundaries I've constructed don't exist. There's just this room, this moment, this man.

"I don't do this," I say weakly. "Whatever this is. I don't—I'm not—"

"I know," he interrupts softly. "That's what makes it interesting."

My heart is pounding so hard I'm certain he can hear it in the quiet of the closet. The exhaustion, the strange intimacy of our situation, the hours of tension—it's all worn away my usual defenses, leaving me raw and honest in a way I've never allowed myself to be.

"I'm your manager," I say, a last feeble attempt at establishing some boundary.

Chris smiles again, but it's not his usual cocky grin. There's something almost tender in it. "Right now, you're just Evelyn. And I'm just Chris. Two people, stuck in a room together."

The simplicity of the statement hits me with unexpected force. Just Evelyn. When was the last time I was just myself, without the weight of my position, my responsibilities, my carefully constructed image?

I exhale slowly, feeling something unravel inside me—something that's been wound too tight for too long.

After our conversation, we lapse back into silence. Chris leans his head against the wall, and soon his breathing grows deep and even. He's asleep, somehow able to find rest in this impossible situation.

I envy him that peace.

My mind refuses to quiet. In the darkness, with nothing to distract me, my thoughts circle like predators. I keep returning to that video—those five seconds of unguarded pleasure I accidentally shared with the world. My cheeks burn again with the memory. Did anyone see it before I deleted it? The thought makes my stomach twist.

I glance over at Chris's sleeping form, just a shadow in the dim emergency light. How many times have I watched him from across the office, pretending to be annoyed while something else entirely stirred inside me? How often have I manufactured reasons to critique his work just to have an excuse to speak with him?

The closet feels smaller by the hour. The air is thick, stuffy. I'm acutely aware of Chris's body heat, his scent—clean sweat mixed with fading cologne. Even asleep, he occupies space differently than other men I know—confidently, unapologetically.

I shift position, trying to get comfortable on the hard floor. My body aches from sitting so long, but beneath that discomfort is another sensation entirely—a low, insistent pulse of desire that I can't ignore.

This confined space has become an incubator for every inappropriate thought I've ever had about him. With no escape, no distraction, those thoughts grow larger, more insistent.

I press my thighs together, trying to quiet the building ache between them. Images flash through my mind—Chris's hands on my body, his mouth on mine, the weight of him pressing me down. Fantasies I've pushed away a hundred times, now rushing back with overwhelming force.

What would he do if he knew? If he could see inside my head right now? The proper, uptight manager imagining her younger colleague in ways that would get her called to HR if anyone suspected.

I remember how he looked at me earlier when I confessed that being trapped with him was affecting me. There was no mockery in his eyes—only interest, intensity. My breath catches at the memory.

I close my eyes, but that only makes the images sharper. I'm no longer just remembering that accidental video I made—I'm imagining a new one. One where I'm not alone. Where those hands on my body aren't my own.

My skin feels too tight, too sensitive. Every nerve ending is alive in the darkness. The rational part of my brain is screaming warnings—he's my subordinate, he's too young, this is completely inappropriate—but those voices are growing fainter by the minute.

I've spent years constructing walls around myself. Perfect control. Perfect professionalism. Now those walls are crumbling in this dark, cramped space, and I'm terrified by how little I want to rebuild them.

I press my hand against my chest, feeling my heart racing beneath my palm. I'm not this person—this desperate, needy woman consumed by want. Except right now, in this moment, I am. And the realization is both terrifying and thrillingly liberating.

His chest rises and falls with each breath, and I find myself matching my breathing to his rhythm. Even unconscious, he's affecting me. I wonder if he can feel it—this tension building in the air between us, thick as smoke.

I've never wanted anyone like this. Not with this raw, animal intensity that makes my fingers curl into fists to keep from reaching for him. It's wrong. It's unprofessional. It's everything I've spent my adult life avoiding.

And yet, in this moment, trapped in this closet as the night crawls toward dawn, it's the only thing that feels real.

I must have drifted off despite my racing thoughts. When I open my eyes, a thin line of light shows beneath the door—dawn is breaking. Something woke me. A soft sound.

The closet is still mostly dark, but enough light filters in that I can make out shapes now. Chris is sitting a few feet away from me, his back partially turned. He thinks I'm still asleep.

Then I hear it again—a quiet sigh—followed by rhythmic movement. My eyes adjust further to the dim light, and I realize what I'm seeing. His arm is moving steadily, his shoulder rising and falling in a familiar cadence.

He's masturbating.

I should close my eyes. I should make a noise to alert him that I'm awake. Instead, I lie perfectly still, watching as his silhouette moves in the half-light. His head is tilted back slightly, his breathing controlled but growing heavier.

The realization that he's touching himself mere feet away from me sends a jolt of electricity through my body. My mouth goes dry as I continue watching, unable to look away.

Something—a shift in my breathing, perhaps—alerts him. He freezes, then slowly turns his head. Our eyes meet in the dim light.

I expect embarrassment, apology, shame—any of the reactions I might have if caught in such a private act. Instead, his gaze is steady, direct. Unashamed. He doesn't scramble to cover himself or make excuses. He simply looks at me, his hand still where it was, as if waiting for my reaction.

"Oh my god," I whisper, my voice vibrating with shock and something else—something I can no longer deny or suppress. "Watching you... I don't understand it, but it's making me so incredibly wet."

The words hang in the air between us. I've never spoken like this, never been so raw and honest about my desire. It should mortify me, but all I feel is relief at finally saying it out loud.

Chris shifts, turning toward me fully now. In the dim light, I can see his cock in his hand, hard and thick. The sight of it—the visual confirmation of what I'd been sensing—breaks something open inside me.

"Please," I say, my voice soft and desperate, stripped of all its usual authority and sharpness. "Will you just... fuck me?"

He moves toward me with a fluid grace that makes my heart pound against my ribs. There's no hesitation, no uncertainty in his approach. He knows exactly what he's doing, and the confidence in his movements only intensifies the ache between my legs.

When he reaches me, he doesn't immediately pounce as I half-expected. Instead, he cups my face in his hands, his touch unexpectedly gentle. He studies my face for a moment, then leans in and kisses me.

His lips are softer than I imagined, but the pressure behind them is firm, claiming. I open to him without resistance, letting his tongue slide against mine. The taste of him is intoxicating—slightly sweet, slightly musky.

His hands move from my face down to my blouse, fingers working the buttons with practiced ease. I should be cold as the fabric parts, exposing my skin to the air, but I'm burning up. Every inch of me feels feverish.

"You've been driving me crazy for months," he murmurs against my neck as he pushes the blouse off my shoulders. "Acting like you can't stand me when I could feel you watching me."

His hands find my breasts, fingers tracing the edge of my bra before dipping inside to brush across my nipples. I gasp at the contact, arching into his touch.

"Tell me what you want," he says, his voice low and commanding. "I want to hear you say it."

"I want you inside me," I whisper, the words coming easier now. "I want to feel your cock filling me up."

He groans at my words, his hands becoming more urgent. He pushes up my skirt, bunching the fabric around my waist. His fingers hook into the waistband of my pantyhose, dragging them down along with my underwear. The cool air hits my exposed pussy, making me painfully aware of how wet I am.

We're awkward on the floor, surrounded by office supplies, but neither of us cares. He positions himself between my spread legs, the head of his cock nudging at my entrance. He's big—bigger than I expected—and for a moment I worry I won't be able to take him.

"Relax," he whispers, sensing my tension. "I'll go slow."

He pushes forward, just the tip entering me, and I gasp at the stretch. He watches my face as he works his way deeper, inch by inch, his jaw tight with the effort of his restraint.

When he's fully seated inside me, we both exhale. The feeling of fullness is overwhelming, almost unbearable. He stays still for a moment, letting me adjust, then begins to move.

His strokes start shallow and controlled, but quickly grow deeper, more urgent. Each thrust sends shockwaves through me, hitting places inside that make my vision blur. I wrap my legs around him, pulling him closer, wanting more.

"Fuck, you feel amazing," he growls against my ear. "So fucking tight."

I can't form coherent responses. All I can do is moan and clutch at his shoulders as he pounds into me, each thrust harder than the last. The tension inside me builds with every movement of his hips, spiraling higher and tighter.

His hand slides between our bodies, finding my clit and rubbing circles in perfect time with his thrusts. The dual sensation—his cock filling me, his fingers on my most sensitive spot—pushes me rapidly toward the edge.

"Come for me," he commands, his voice strained with his own approaching orgasm. "Let go, Evelyn."

And I do. The release crashes through me, obliterating everything else—my control, my reservations, my carefully constructed identity. I'm reduced to pure sensation as my pussy clenches around him, waves of pleasure radiating outward from my core.

He follows moments later, his rhythm faltering as he pushes deep one final time. I feel the hot pulse of his cum inside me, his body shuddering against mine.

We lie there afterward, breathing hard, our bodies still joined. The floor is hard and cold beneath my back, but I barely notice it. All I can focus on is the weight of him pressing me down, the lingering aftershocks of pleasure flickering through my body, and the staggering realization of what we've just done.

In this moment, I don't care about propriety or professional boundaries or the fifteen-year age gap between us. All that matters is the profound relief of finally giving in to something I've denied myself for too long.

As our breathing slows, he raises his head to look at me. The light under the door has grown stronger, illuminating his features. There's a question in his eyes, a hint of uncertainty that wasn't there before. I reach up and touch his face, answering that unspoken question with a small smile.

We don't speak. There's nothing to say yet that wouldn't break this fragile new thing between us. Instead, he shifts to lie beside me, pulling me against his chest, his arms wrapping around me in the narrow space.

Outside our closet prison, the world is waking up. Soon, we'll have to face it. But for now, in this stolen moment of dawn, we simply exist together in the aftermath of desire finally fulfilled.

I wake to Chris's fingers tracing lazy patterns on my bare arm. The light beneath the door has grown stronger, casting the supply closet in a dim glow that reveals our surroundings more clearly now. Boxes of paper, shelves of toner cartridges, and a stack of binders that tumbled over during our frantic coupling.

"How long was I asleep?" I murmur, my voice hoarse.

"Twenty minutes, maybe?" Chris shifts beside me, propping himself up on one elbow. His eyes travel over my body with an appreciation that makes me flush despite everything we've already done. "I like watching you sleep. Your face relaxes. All that tension disappears."

I should feel self-conscious, lying half-naked on an office floor with my skirt bunched around my waist and my blouse hanging open, but strangely, I don't. The urgency of our first encounter has given way to something quieter, more intimate.

"What happens now?" I ask, not sure if I'm referring to our immediate situation or something larger.

Chris doesn't answer with words. Instead, he leans down and presses his lips to mine, a kiss that's gentler than before but no less intent. His hand slides down my side, resting at my hip, thumb making slow circles against my skin.

"I want to taste you," he whispers against my mouth. "Will you let me do that?"

The request sends a fresh wave of heat through me. I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

He moves with deliberate slowness, trailing kisses down my neck to my collarbone, then lower to my breasts. He takes his time here, licking and sucking each nipple until they're hard and aching. My fingers tangle in his hair, holding him against me.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs against my skin. "I've thought about this so many times."

His confession surprises me. "You have?"

He looks up, his expression serious. "Every day for months. Watching you stride around the office in those tight skirts, all buttoned up and proper. I kept imagining what you'd look like coming apart."

The image his words create makes me wet all over again. He seems to sense this, his hand sliding between my thighs, fingers finding me slick and ready.

"Spread your legs for me," he says, his voice low but commanding.

I let my knees fall open as he positions himself between them, his shoulders pushing my thighs wider. The position leaves me completely exposed to his gaze. In any other circumstance, with anyone else, I would feel vulnerable, embarrassed. But the hunger in his eyes as he looks at my pussy makes me feel powerful instead.

"I'm going to make you feel so good," he promises, his breath warm against my inner thigh.

The first touch of his tongue is electric. He starts with a long, slow lick from my entrance up to my clit, gathering my wetness. I gasp, my hips jerking involuntarily.

"Stay still," he says, placing one firm hand on my lower belly to hold me in place. "Let me work."

He returns to his task with focused intensity. His tongue explores every fold and crevice, learning what makes me moan and whimper. When he finds a particularly sensitive spot, he lingers there, applying varying pressure until my thighs start to tremble.

"You taste even better than I imagined," he murmurs against me, the vibration of his words adding to the sensation.

His technique is exquisite—alternating between broad, flat strokes of his tongue and precise flicks against my clit. When he adds his fingers, pushing two inside me and curling them upward, I nearly come off the floor.

"Oh god," I gasp, feeling a pressure building that's different from anything I've experienced before. It's deeper, more intense, centered somewhere behind my pubic bone where his fingers are pressing.

"That's it," he encourages, his fingers working inside me as his tongue continues its relentless attention to my clit. "Don't fight it. Let it happen."

The pressure keeps building, almost uncomfortable in its intensity. I feel like I'm approaching some precipice, something beyond the orgasms I've known before. Part of me wants to pull away, to retreat from the overwhelming sensation, but Chris's grip on me is firm.

"I can't," I whisper, panic edging my voice. "It's too much."

He lifts his head just enough to meet my eyes, his chin glistening with my arousal. "You can. Trust me."

Then he returns to me with renewed vigor, his fingers pressing more firmly inside while his tongue circles my clit at a perfect rhythm. The pressure crests, and I feel something break open inside me. My back arches, a cry tearing from my throat as pleasure explodes outward from my core.

Liquid gushes from me, soaking his hand and the floor beneath us. I'm vaguely aware of the wetness, but too lost in the waves of my orgasm to fully process what's happening. The release seems to go on forever, pulsating through my body in ripples that gradually subside.

When I finally come back to myself, I look down to see Chris watching me with an expression of naked admiration and pride.

"Did I just...?" I can't even finish the question, embarrassment finally catching up to me.

"You squirted," he confirms, his voice filled with satisfaction. "It's beautiful when a woman lets go like that."

He moves back up my body, gathering me against him. I can feel his hardness pressing against my thigh, but he makes no move to seek his own pleasure. Instead, he holds me as the aftershocks continue to ripple through me, my body occasionally shuddering with the intensity of what just happened.

"I've never done that before," I admit, my voice small.

He kisses my forehead. "I'm honored to be the first."

We lie tangled together on the floor, the space between us charged with something neither of us is ready to name. My body feels both weightless and heavy, completely spent yet somehow more present than I've ever been. The light under the door grows brighter, reminding us that the world outside continues to turn, but for now, we exist in this bubble of aftermath, words unnecessary in the warm silence we share.