WHERE DO WE FUCK AT WORK? [MF] [Str8]

Where Do We Fuck at Work?

You arrive at work, park the car. Twenty minutes early. You recline the driver’s seat, turn up the music, close your eyes.

You stayed up way too late, texting with Shannon who should already be inside on shift.

You replay the conversation in your mind. Intoxication on both sides dropped inhibitions.

You remember his words, “Even if I never had a chance with you, I can’t help being turned on every time I think of you.”

“Do you get off to me?” you asked, brazenly.

“If I said yes, would you start ghosting me?” he asked.

“No, Shan. It’s flattery.”

“Then, yes. Yes I do. Often.”

You try to remember the conversation that led to this, but all you can recall is the rush you felt when he said that. Your head was light, a mix of the weed you hit and the adrenaline that made your hands tremble, and the scared exhilaration that tingled all over the moment you snapped a pic and tapped send.

You had been sitting in your chair, wearing a tank top and panties. Your bedtime outfit. You had spread your legs, pulled your panties to the side, snapped the pic.

“Does this seem like I am ghosting you?”

“Fuck, Juliette. That’s so hot. Can I hope that’s an invitation?”

“If it was?”

“If it was, we are fucking at work tomorrow.”

He had jerked off to you right then, told you he was getting off, told you that you were “fucking hot” and that he wanted to taste you. You fingered yourself until you came, told him your chair was all wet now.

“I would lay my face in it and be in heaven,” he said.

Then, entertaining his thought, you asked, “Where would we fuck? At work, I mean. If we fucked, where at work would we do it?”

It’s time to go clock in. You put the seat back upright, turn off the car, and step out.

You see that there is a wet spot on your car’s seat. You check your pants and find that they too are moist.

“Oh, damn,” you curse to yourself. You didn’t mean to get turned on, but there it was.

Inside, you use the hand dryer in the employee bathroom to take care of your pants, then stripping off your panties and holding them under the hot air.

You pull them back on, acutely aware of the warmth between your legs as you head out onto the floor.

You see Shannon at the charting station, sitting with his back to you. You walk quietly, lean towards his ear, and softly say, “Where are we gonna fuck?”

His head raises and turns, but you’ve already walked away, and you are smiling.

It may just be an inside joke between you now, but it felt hot knowing that you probably just turned him on.

Your shift is hectic, not necessarily bad, but you can’t stop your mind from asking, “Could we fuck here? Or here? Or here?” every time you pass a room, or a hallway, or a station. You even run through scenarios. It makes the day go by faster, and you maintain a heightened sense of sexual awareness within yourself. You feel like a time bomb ticking.

This may just be a game, but it has you wound up.

“Or here,” you whisper to yourself, as you pass the stairwell. Downstairs is another active floor of the hospital, but below that is the basement.

You had been down there once since you started working here. Old wheelchairs, broken gurneys, random equipment. Shelves of paperwork and randomness strewn around. It was creepy, and it was illuminated by dusty bare bulbs, unlike the bright fluorescents up here.

You think, “That would be a dirty fuck,” but the aesthetic turns you on.

Shannon walks up to you from behind, places a hand on your arm, says “Hey sexy.”

“What’s up sexting buddy?” you ask, giving him a little smile as you turn to face him.

He stands squared off with you now, takes your other arm with his free hand, and grins wide, even reddens a little. It’s charming.

It’s the first somewhat private moment you’ve had since you arrived that morning.

“And so it comes back to: where do we fuck at work?” he says, still grinning.

Without a missed beat, you say, “We start here,” and you take his right hand to your chest, squeeze it so that he is cupping your tit. He moves his left hand to your thigh, slides it between your legs and draws up, curling his fingers on the waist of your pants.

“Come,” you say, turning. He follows you to the stairwell door. You look back at him and say, “I’ve been wet for you since last night.”

On the platform where stairs go up and stairs go down, you turn, tilt your head back, and he kisses you, hands moving over your ass.

“Downstairs,” you say, catching a breath.

The basement door is unlocked, probably because it’s too old and rusted to lock even if you wanted it to.

“No one comes down here,” you say.

You flip on the lights, and they glow yellow and dim. It’s cool down here, but you still feel perspiration down your back. “Is this really going to happen,” you wonder?

He says nothing as you lead him to a wheelchair, motion him to sit. The dried out leather seat creaks as he does. You step back, and begin to unbutton your blouse.

He watches you, and you continue the show, undressing fully before him. You see he is breathing heavy. You see his erection growing.

And you stand there, letting him savor the view for a moment before pointing.

“Those pants come off, now” you say, kneeling naked on the pile of your clothes, unfastening his belt, unbuttoning him.

You pull his pants down to his knees, along with his boxers. His hard cock springs up like a lever, and you wrap your hand around his shaft, lean in and slowly lick the underside of the head, before taking him in your mouth.

He moans. You stroke him, moving your mouth in tandem, using the wetness of your tongue.

“Kick off your shoes, Shan.” He does and you slide his pants and underwear the rest of the way off. He pulls off his shirt.

“Stand up,” you say. He does, and you pull him closer, a half-foot at most, and you take his cock, rub its head around your labia, into your wet folds, exploring. His hands are moving over your tits. You both sigh at the same time, and then smile at that.

He steps forward, moving you backwards until your back is against a cold wall. It feels good, contrasting with the spreading warmth of your excitement.

In a simultaneous movement, he lifts your right leg and you guide him right into you. He slides in so easily.

You gasp, biting your bottom lip.

“This is where we fuck at work,” you say.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders. He’s moving in firm, regulated thrusts. You feel the rough concrete wall scraping your back as your body moves with him. This, too, is good.

He lets your leg drop and steps back, pulling out. You’re bracing yourself against the wall, regaining your footing, throbbing.

You push off, head back to the wheelchair. Knees down on your clothes pile, you lay your chest on the seat, extend your arms over the wheels.

He kicks his own clothes over, kneels behind you and inserts himself.

The wheelchair squeaks loud and fast, and you do, too. Slaps of skin in timed rhythm with his grunts echo around the concrete room.

You cry out, “Fuck! Fuck! Yes! YES!” as he jackhammers you from behind, until you can no longer grasp the wheelchair. You let it go and it rolls away, leaving you prostrate. He moves to get back inside you, spreading your legs to expose your engorged wet pussy, but you roll over and say, “Wait.”

You stand, grab his hand and pull him towards the door. Your two naked bodies glow under the yellow light, the sweat a perfect sheen, and you pull him out of the room and into the stairwell.

You turn and smile, then turn back again and walk up to the first platform. He’s perplexed, perhaps nervous that anyone could walk into the stairwell at any moment and find you both, co-working professionals, naked. It’s exhilarating.

You sit on the top step, spread your legs, beckon him, and lay back. He positions himself on the stairs, and extends his arms beside you on the platform. He’s set, and his cock is back inside you.

The reverberation of your pleasure sounds in the stairwell. You think it might draw someone’s attention, and that turns you on. Should another coworker happen upon this scene, what would they do? You almost beg in your mind for someone to see you here, fully naked and a total creature of sex.

You think of who you want to walk in, name them in your mind as he continues to pound you: Seth with the tattoos, muscular John, leather jacket Leo.

Shannon’s moment is upon you, you can tell by his movements and his breathing. When he explodes inside of you, you literally scream out with pleasure.

He pulls out and rolls to sit beside you. You remain still in the same fuckable position, trying to recalibrate your breathing. You feel a draft of air, and goosebumps spread over your body.

You would stay right here like this for an hour if you could. Naked, and wrecked. Ready for anyone to walk in, take in the view.

You smile, look at Shannon, and say, “This is where we fucked at work.”

THE END

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/m940fi/where_do_we_fuck_at_work_mf_str8